


Shades of Grey

by Ocianne



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Cade Maboroshi, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocianne/pseuds/Ocianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hakuba Saguru, British detective. Everyone believes Kid to be the showman, but what secrets might lie behind Saguru's over-the-top debut and subsequent conspicuous absences? Point of view, DCMK canon with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Gosho's characters belong to Gosho. Original characters do not. Due to Saguru's perspective, British spelling is generally maintained but could probably use a Britpicker if anyone would like the job. Oh, and the following is all Vathara's fault.
> 
> Welcome to the crackbunny that would not die: an exercise in style, perspective, and story. Enjoy.

_Monday, 23 February. 20:49:13._

Hand on the pocket watch, feel the open-face time tick by, seconds and minutes and hours pressing into fingertips that know the sharp arrow hands by heart.

Let the familiar rhythm set a measured pace for walking down the corridor, echoed by a calm heartbeat as feet pause in the doorway to the main exhibit. This is show time—finding out if it's possible to pass muster, or witness countless hours of work vanish like a collapsed house of cards.

"All right, let's synchronise our watches!" That voice is easily recognisable, Nakamori having dominated the interviews related to Kid's return, eight months worth of media to memorise. "The time is, um…"

There will be no better opportunity to make an entrance tonight. Pull out the watch to make the appearance just right and step inside, shoes silent on marble, white and white and white. "23rd of February, 20:51 and 16.05 seconds exactly."

It's not. Or at least, the fractions of a second are simply a guess. A century-old pocket watch will never delineate time with such precision, but no one is going to challenge that level of exactitude because there's nothing to compare it against.

Say it anyway, because if speaking the time aloud is a matter of routine, it might as well be to an outrageous degree. Time is the one constant, ten thousand disconnected moments held together by universal thread.

 _Pulse_.

Across the room, someone—likely Nakamori—has turned in a squeak of shoes, attention arrested by the purposefully British lilt.

Timing is everything. "And for your information—" snap the case closed "—my watch deviates only .001 seconds in a year." Precision is a close second to timing; without it, the world blurs into half-truths.

"You—You're that detective from London!" Nakamori, definitely, voice a deep-throated growl. The man seems a likable sort, both as an officer of the law and as a man who won't suffer fools gladly.

Pause a breath… and then turn to face Kid's Task Force with a dazzling Westerner's smile.

"Hakuba Saguru, at your service."

_Pulse._

The huddle of men has turned as one to look. Let them watch the foreign-broad smile, the deerstalker coat and hat, brim pulled low—if they're distracted by the costume, they aren't looking at the eyes. An eccentric reputation is manageable; that's only a few shades off normal, and it's going to crop up whether actively encouraged or not.

"Scram, this is no place for amateurs!" Even anticipated, Nakamori's casual dismissal grates. Spine straightening in reflex, mentally line up evidence of competence in logical progression—but then the thought is interrupted by unexpected pressure wrapping around both shoulders.

Don't twitch; don't react.  _Pulse_.

Father's hand, arm, body, all etched as a rippling flash of white on black and shades of grey. He insisted on coming along tonight, to smooth the way.

"Oh, Nakamori-kun, don't be so stiff!" Father's voice, customarily jovial, as the arm presses uncomfortably against him.

Don't bristle.

Father means well, really, just is overprotective. He forgets that this move to Japan is primarily about independence in the first place. Chasing a criminal who is half pacifist, half stage-performer, and all genius, is perfect. Provided the Task Force's acceptance can be won.

Pressure eases as father moves and appeals to Nakamori's pride: an experienced officer teaching an amateur the harsh reality of law enforcement that exists behind the media's false glamour. Apparently Eric inherited the fine art of manipulation from father and mother both, because father turns Nakamori's irritation into outright enthusiasm before there's an opportunity to retake control of the exchange.

"If you have any questions, boy, just let me know!" Nakamori's hand claps on a shoulder, intended as a friendly gesture.

Don't flinch.

Loose a barrage of questions instead, none of which Nakamori can really be expected to know, much as they might wish otherwise. The only solid facts about Kid are the treasures he's stolen and his tricks of the trade. Even his gender is assumed from his white-suited appearance at heists, but that's hardly a guarantee given that the man has believably disguised as Nakamori's own daughter.

_Pulse._

Father has stepped out, mission accomplished; the officers are silent, unmoving. Nakamori seems justifiably harried, and it's difficult to tell if the man's gaze is focused or not. "I… I don't know…"

"Then excuse me." Turn away, hat pulled low, and retrace the steps to the exit by memory. No one should be a bother for the rest of the evening, provided any investigating doesn't draw undue attention.

If Kid continues to escape in the future, building a criminal profile from scratch will be a good exercise.

* * *

_21:08:37._

Walk outside, trading indoor warmth for snow-sharp air, and ignore the sudden ache of hands and eyes and patches of torso. Temperate weather is infinitely preferable, but a similar snowstorm in London means Japan is no worse of a location. With almost an hour before 22:00, Kid's predicted arrival, there is plenty of time to investigate the thief's escape plans.

_Pulse._

Find the stairs, descending white and grey to open space's featureless black, and  _hold_  against them to compensate for the lack of handrail. No one will notice if the snow underfoot is crunched a little bit more than it used to be.

There's a white shape partway down the stairs that isn't the snow it's half-buried beneath, rectangular with grey kanji contours etched on top. A police notebook, lying where no police notebook should be, but the seven guards around the entrance are too busy watching the air to be paying attention to the ground.

Slide an evidence glove onto one hand, carefully kneel to pick it up by the corner and gently shake it off. A hiss escapes unconsciously at the cold burn of frozen water through the white cloth; bag the notebook and slip both bag and glove inside the coat's large inner pocket. The coat isn't  _only_  for show, after all. And if Kid is going to be careless enough to drop a piece of his disguise tonight, perhaps he can also be foolish enough to have touched the misplaced object barehanded.

It's worth a try, at any rate, and can be handed over for processing after the heist bears out proof of Kid's chosen disguise. Until then, there's the question of whether said disguise was obtained beforehand, or if some poor sod is sitting in his knickers somewhere.

…Kid isn't cruel. Crazy, perhaps, but not cruel. The only safe place to leave an officer out here is one of the two police cars parked in the roundabout at the foot of the museum's entrance stairs. The hum of both engines running is audible even before reaching the sidewalk, heaters working to block out the cold.

_Pulse. And hold, still soft as breath, against the surfaces._

One is sealed up tight: white panels and white tires and white windows that show nothing. But the other…

Don't smirk. Pride in England is hubris in Japan.

The second car has a back window cracked open, enough to be able to find the interior behind the opaque glass.

"What the…" There  _is_  a man trussed up in the back seat, and the faintest of grey lines reveals the gag of tape over his mouth. The discovery itself isn't surprising, but rather by the goose egg on the man's skull where it rests on the far seat. Hardly a serious injury, but it proves that Kid is willing to inflict small hurts to both person and dignity for the sake of his goal.

Of course, there's no record of Kid having any other options when it comes to knocking people out, either. If Kid knew about it, he would probably favor the anaesthetic gas that one of Grandfather's research labs finished the prototype testing stages for only a few months ago. Grandfather had waxed eloquent about it last week when he'd provided a tour of the labs and a key card, encouraged turning to science rather than criminology.

...Come to think of it, if Kid gets away this time, there's no reason why some couldn't be borrowed for a controlled experiment. What better target than a criminal?

Belatedly realise that if the heat escaping through the window crack is anything to go by, the windows are hiding this man from his fellow officers by dint of being fogged. Eccentric is one thing, but staring at a fogged-up window for a good minute without bothering to wipe it off is not going to lend credence to being a normal genius high school detective. A quick check reveals that four officers are oriented toward the street, could be watching.

When you have an audience, appearances are everything.

Wipe the glass with both hands and lean in for three breaths time. Turn away to continue investigating, shoving throbbing-cold hands deep into warm pockets, and absently wish for the hundredth time for gloves that retain heat without feeling claustrophobic.

_Pulse, out and up._

Orient to two intriguing facts. One: there is a dual-banner display above the museum's entrance, presumably with writing, tethered by several thick ropes decorated by other rectangles of hanging cloth. Two: One of the tether ropes for the second-story banner isn't a tether rope at all, but apparently anchors a blimp hidden behind the banner.

How very interesting.


	2. White

_Monday, 23 February. 21:58:26._

One minute and thirty-four seconds until 22:00. Silence holds sway, broken only by the wall clock's ticking on the far side of the room. With the museum's heater and so many bodies in one room, the aches have faded. Lurk in the shadows beneath the second floor observation balcony, eyes closed, own preparations long since complete.

Shoes squeak on marble, tracing Nakamori's movement every time he turns around. It's the pace of a caged tiger more than anything, but it still reveals that this man is one of action, and will prefer instant reactions and snap decisions to counter Kid. That tendency must be balanced by moving more slowly, analysing each situation for being a trick before daring to react. Officers cannot disobey their commander, but being a wildcard will give the ability to compensate for their—let the lips quirk—blind spot.

The sudden hiss of gas or smoke becomes noticeable half a second before an eye-watering smell. The officers closest to the painting are neutralised by coughing fits until the sickly-sweet smell diminishes, and then Nakamori swears.

 _Pulse_.

The Adam's Smile frame hasn't moved, but the canvas no longer bears the mottled texture of paint. Flat white displays kanji in pale grey outline, ink or paint raised a hairsbreadth above the background surface to declare that Kid already possesses the painting.

True to expectations, Nakamori leads the men in a veritable stampede outside the room to search for Kid before he escapes the museum altogether. Hang back a moment longer, waiting, and after a few moments the reward is another quiet cough.

_Pulse, strobe the sequence of movement._

One officer, still kneeling on the ground, rises and waves at the task force's vanishing backs, then declares in English, "Have fun stormin' da castle!"

Don't  _choke_.

It takes approximately forty-one seconds to recover from the shock of Kid knowing obscure American culture, precious seconds that Kid uses to remove the Adam's Smile. People say Kid is good at imitations, but that bloody well sounded like an audio clip straight out of the movie he was quoting, complete with the New Yorker nasal. (It had been Eric's favorite movie at age six. The entire script is still memorised.)

Banish amusement and school the features, made easier by the tiny feeling of almost-betrayal. Kid is touted as a genius criminal—how can the thief stoop to using mere parlour tricks? Unless such obvious illusions are truly the extent of Kid's abilities… but that doesn't bear thinking about.

Step out of the shadows instead, and confront him.

"When something cannot be found in its proper location, onlookers decide it must have vanished. Not even stage magicians stoop to the level of such an antiquated optical illusion these days…"

Kid is a vacuum of sound, all attention on this unexpected piece's arrival in the game. That's right, Kid, the knight's angular movement is not so easily anticipated or manipulated as Nakamori's rook-straight lines of thought. Hakuba means white horse, and the name is accurate.

_Pulse._

Let fingers trace the pocket watch; step close enough to loom near Kid's kneeling frame. "You are one minute and 13.02 seconds too late to escape, Kaitou Kid-san."

"Well, the weather kinda backed me up."

Kid  _banters._ It's not a trait advertised to the general public. Luckily, growing up with Eric provided plenty of practice. Before there's a chance to reply, time—stutters. One second Kid is crouched on the ground, and the next the thief's laughter echoes down from the observation balcony that circles the domed exhibit hall.

"But you're the one who's too late!"

Don't panic. Control is everything; the smallest of slips… can't happen. Won't.

The thread of time still holds true, unbroken, simply distended somehow.

_Pulse. Hold. No more surprises until it's over…_

The same disturbing second that took Kid fifteen feet up also granted time enough to exchange his disguise for the trademark costume, white suit and hat and cape. No wonder the thief sees little need to be more sophisticated, if he can do things like  _that_.

Kid still isn't getting out that way. "Ah, should I mention that I already cut the rope? The blimp should be well on its way into the sky by now…"

Stalk up the stairs to the balcony as the window swings open, and hear Kid inhale sharply.

"You no longer have any means of escape." Kid is caught; there's no way out without risking a physical confrontation. Keep the hat brim low as Kid turns around. "Tell me… Why do you steal? What purpose could it serve?"

Maybe Kid is just a thrill-seeker. Hopefully not. It's a reason, but a poor one, especially for a man who seems to stretch time like rubber.

"Heh." Metal unfolds, transforming white cape into a triangle of stretched cloth. "Isn't it  _your_  job to find out the answer?"

…That's a new response, but the question has only been asked of criminals with no avenue of escape. Kid doesn't think he's beaten yet.

"A hang glider?" The words tumble out, incredulous. "Do you think you're Batman?"

Aidan loves comic books, comic book characters. It's more difficult to appreciate them these days. Additionally, a glider is a poor choice of escape tonight, even if the snow has stopped falling.

"Batman is a comic book hero," Kid replies, voice dropped to an almost-purr. "Not a real life one." He swoops away before there's a chance to get a word in edgewise.

"A foolish decision." Kid is too far away to hear, but say it anyway, speaking aloud an old habit. "Weather predicted strong winds from the north-north-west tonight, unsuitable for flight…"

 _Pulse._ Sense the winds catch Kid and careen him in a controlled crash into a thick snow bank, not twenty feet from where Nakamori searches. The chase commences for real, into the closed amusement park across the street, and while Kid escapes after all, he leaves behind a noteworthy detail—ice turns the sophisticated thief into a clumsy amateur.

Pull out the personal notebook, click the pen, and carefully, carefully, make a shorthand note. Being outside now, at the edge of the Task Force huddled around an inflatable decoy, requires accounting for peripheral vision even if no one is paying much attention.

Purpose complete, hand over the bagged police notebook to Nakamori for evidence, smile charmingly, and promise to see him at the next heist. Ignoring the sputter, turn and head for the street to hail a taxi, tell the driver to head for home.

As the taxi pulls out into the snow-covered streets, smile. Kid will be worthy opponent after all.

* * *

_23:54:49._

The housekeeper has tea waiting. British style, bless her, remembered from before mother was compelled back to England to manage the family estates.

Take the tray upstairs to the bedroom and savor the strong, unsweetened flavor. (Eric happily dumps half a dozen lumps of sugar into his own without flinching, one of many small preferences that leave them rolling their eyes at each other.)

Relax.

…It's hard. Even here, with no one to see, it's hard to let down well-practiced guardedness. It's… not home. Home is still wrapped up in a mother and two brothers, especially when one thinks you walk on water and the other pulled you out from being in over your head.

Set the empty teacup aside and check the time. Past midnight—nine hours behind Tokyo in London, Eric should be home from rugby practice by now. If one's mobile can be located…

It's in the coat hung up in the wardrobe across the room.

Sod it. Achy hands and exhaustion make it not worth getting up. Focus instead, until the mobile worms out of the deep pocket, flies across the room and drops neatly into a raised hand.

"Thank you." It doesn't answer.

Flip it open, speed dial one, and lean back further into the overstuffed recliner. With the footrest up, lying nearly flat, it's a serious temptation to not move again until morning. The mobile rings, once, twice, thrice…

"Harcourt." The voice is a familiar echo, albeit distorted by electronics and sounding distracted.

"Read your caller ID next time, Eric." It's almost a relief to switch back to English. Despite growing up bilingual, only ever speaking Japanese with father, it's been almost ten years since living in Japan. Speaking Japanese is relatively easy, but hearing it from every direction is new and a bit jarring. With such close attunement to auditory input, it's harder to filter out background conversation.

"Saguru!" The evening's residual tension unwinds immediately at the smile in Eric's voice. "How was the heist? It was tonight—today—bugger time zones, it's over now, right?"

Laughter comes easily. "Yes, I'm home now. It… was interesting."

"Were there any problems? You're all right? No migraine?"

"You're clucking again." Even if it is a bit nice to be reminded that Eric cares. Coming to Japan carried the expectation of missing the family left behind—but the loss of simply their presence aches more than stepping away from their safety net.

"I'm the big brother. It's my job to worry about you."

"By eleven minutes. I'm fine. It was mostly waiting, with perhaps twenty-one minutes of action. I didn't have to use my edge as much as we thought I might, at least this time."

"Good. The last thing you need is to be snarly around news cameras." Eric is still smiling, the jibe a gentle one. It's true, though. Migraines seem to knock all verbal censors offline, such that the nearest source or irritation is, in a still perfectly civil tone of voice, chewed into so much mincemeat.

"…Huh. There wasn't any media there afterward tonight, now that I think about it." Scowl faintly at the logical conclusion. "I suspect Father may have meddled."

"He only wants things to work out. If something  _had_  happened, at least it wouldn't have been plastered all over the morning news."

"Mmm."

"So what was it like? Give me the rundown."

"It's good I came. Kid will be worth chasing." Oblige Eric's request with an ordered and fairly blow-by-blow account of the evening, except for Kid's odd time-stretching. Better to not mention that by name over the phone when one can be more circumspect. Old paranoia dies hard.

"I think…" Hesitate a moment, still wanting to disbelieve. "I think he's like me."

"Like you? You think he's pulling off all of those crazy escapes b—"

"No, don't be daft. I mean… He has an edge. Like me. Some of his impossibilities really are impossible, from… a normal person's perspective."

"No kidding?" Eric's voice is just slightly awed, before regaining its typical jaunty tone. "We were right, then! That's great."

From a certain perspective, which has been preferable to ignore. It's been a long-held suspicion that having an edge can't be wholly unique in the world, but coming to Japan wasn't to look for that. To have found it  _here_ , of all places, in a criminal that deserves to be _caught_ …

"Do recall that he's still a thief. Given the context, I'm not entirely certain he's employing the edge consciously, and I'm hardly going to invite him over for tea."

"Are you sure? He's audacious enough that he might show up if you did."

"Ha ha." Even if not trying to pass for normal, it's poor strategy to give away a weakness to an opponent or alert them to an advantage.

"Well, if you found one, maybe there are more. Tokyo  _is_  traditionally a weirdness magnet, after all."

"It's possible, I suppose." A sigh escapes. "With my luck, the only other person I find like this will be Kid's civilian identity."

Eric pauses, likely wanting to be reassuring, but there's nothing to be said. "You won't know unless you look, little brother."

"In my copious free time. I start school tomorrow… Year-end exams are in a week." Ekoda High allowed an immediate transfer rather than waiting for the beginning of next year, another favor to father, or perhaps grandfather. The Superintendent General of the entire Tokyo Metropolitan Police and the founder-head of Hakuba Research Labs tend to be granted exceptions. It will be convenient to be able to immediately gauge relative academic standing with a mid-year transfer, but it's frustrating when exceptions seem determined to haunt your entire life.

"Hell, I already forgot about the term differences." Another pause. "You're sure you don't want me there?"

Honestly, the certainly is missing. Navigating a new building without Eric to point out the words on printed signs that have no contour depths, the subject matter of pictures hanging about, the colours of their classmates' hair and eyes and clothes… It's more than a little daunting.

This edge is mere force, tightly controlled: a traveling pressure wave that traces the surrounding contours with feather-light touch, or if allowed, an invisible hand that can move or hit or crush.

Breathe. Remember the reasons for coming in the first place. "Yes, Eric. I told you, back when I first decided to do this… I'll always be your twin. I need to know who I am, when I'm not."

A sigh. "I know. Just take care of yourself… I'm glad the heist went by without a hitch."

"As am I." Check the time. Mentally curse that the day starts again in close to five hours. "I'm sorry, I hate to dash, but I do need  _some_ sleep before tomorrow."

"Of course, don't let me keep you." Eric is far too accommodating. Sometimes it's annoying, but at times like now it's a blessing.

"I'll call you again tomorrow evening. Give my love to mother and Aidan."

"Will do. He's going to be disappointed that he missed talking to you, so expect to be on speakerphone tomorrow."

Smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

Another reluctant goodbye and the room is silent, only thoughts for company. Eyes close tiredly until the familiar pressure reminds why bypassing the nighttime routine is a poor idea. Reluctantly abandon the chair and prepare for bed, taking small comfort in the familiar order, clothes and teeth and face.

Last of all are the eyes.

Remove the coloured contacts lenses, one more way to pass for normal. If no one looks too closely, all they'll see is expected brown. They won't see the way these eyes don't usually focus  _quite_  right through long blond bangs—forcing the muscles to approximate what memory suggests would serve is a significant strain. Doing it more than a time or two almost guarantees a migraine, and even with Eric's whispered coaching the ruse never feels entirely successful.

It's likely that despite the off-putting conceit inherent in the expression, smirking will be easier than smiling. Smile, and people expect you to be looking at someone. Smirk, and you can look anywhere.

Put the lenses away in their proper case, plastic Braille on the lids denoting brown's left and right. White-ringed brown is for Japan like white-ringed blue is for England, both hiding away scarred, clouded blue.

Indulge in self-pity for just a moment and  _pulse_ , filling black void with a snapshot of shapes and planes and angles etched in colourless white and grey. Given a choice between this and endless black forever, monochrome is preferable—but sometimes it's almost worse to have the sense halfway, and know every detail of what's missing.

Colour.

Light.

Transparency.

Reflection.

_Pulse. Hold._

The bathroom outlines again in a 360º panorama. At eye-height stands a white rectangle, forever opaque as fingers trail over the cold, smooth surface—the mirror holding an image forever out of sight.


	3. Azure

_Monday, 2 March. 12:43:02._

Exams. Of all the things related to school in the quest to publicly appear normal, exams are perhaps the worst. There is no lecture to listen to with nearly eidetic recall, only line after endless line of inked characters outlined on paper in faint grey, and private, scribbled shorthand is not a penmanship option. Edge use is required almost constantly, between reading the questions and watching the position of the pen as it skitters across the paper in answer.

By the end of the first test it's obvious that even with painkillers and possibly a nap snatched during lunchtime, every day is going to end with a migraine until exams are over. The only hope is to escape the building before anyone tries to talk, or (dear Holmes, no) tries to _flirt_. Several girls in class seem to have decided that the new-transfer status, decent pedigree, and exotic appearance—upper eyelid folds, for one, and  _natural_ tea-brown hair—make for prime boyfriend material.

It would be easier if they didn't. Eric would have lapped up the attention, angled for at least one date with every girl in the class and somehow managed to still keep all of them happy, but in this at least the difference between them is already clear. Perhaps if extended social interaction were less stressful and exhausting, or if any seemed genuinely interesting, being charming wouldn't be only to keep them happily at a distance.

It's a minor blessing that one of the more tolerable girls is Keiko, budding journalist for the school newspaper. She is one of the centres of school gossip, and thus a valuable source of information about both individuals and the hidden social structure of the school. Through her love to relay news it becomes clear that it is another minor blessing that Koizumi Akako is  _not_  one of the girls necessary to placate.

Two weeks is not enough time to quell gossip about a beautiful girl, so amidst the other rumors Keiko cheerfully relayed over the first week of school was the story of Akako's mastery over every male in the school on Valentine's Day—except for Kuroba, who'd flatly refused to part with his precious trove of chocolates received from other girls in order to be gifted with hers. Keiko had been quite impressed by that point, even if she did credit Kuroba's all-eclipsing love of chocolate as the primary reason.

Akako is beautiful, you'd suppose, but seems no different from how any other person sensed through edge might be. She is beautiful in the way a marble statue bears the term: white and smooth and seemingly cold. Her eternal poise and even temperament only serves to make the similarity to dead stone worse.

In addition, she is oddly blurred in ways that other people are not, as if the edge cannot get too close and skids around her instead. Had Keiko not specifically pointed her out during lunch period, it's doubtful her presence would have been noted by edge-pulse alone. Perhaps there is something in the sight of her that draws others inextricably, something edge perception is immune to, but that then leaves the question of Kuroba's apparent immunity.

Kuroba seems to delight in provoking questions, none of which have answers. Of course, now that Akako has been noticed, she seems determined to give Kuroba a run for his money in that department. Even which classroom she's in is still unclear, but it's not important enough to risk asking a question that likely ought to be known already.

Keiko's best friend, Aoko, at least, is refreshingly straightforward. She has been friendly from the first day, when she learned that working on the same task force as her father was not a one-time event. A smile and a wave is her greeting during lunch today, even though the general interest regarding a new transfer student has died down beneath the stress of finals beginning. The gesture is enough to divert the original intention of eating up a tree, where it's possible to relax out of immediate sight at least for a little while and sleep. Instead, lunch ends up being eaten with excruciating care in the company of Keiko, Aoko, and Kuroba, while Aoko and Kuroba argue like siblings and Keiko attempts to flirt.

Perhaps Aoko's energy is why she appears to be more attractive than Akako or Keiko. Every gesture and movement and expression that she makes is wholly, vibrantly  _alive_.

…In a world of mobile stone statues, to find one radiating heat is a rare treasure indeed.

She is brightest, it seems, when in the company of Kuroba. Kuroba, who cannot seem to decide if he is sixteen or six and delights in baiting his childhood friend. There has already been opportunity to witness their semi-traditional mop-dodging dance, and a bit of incredulity remains that no one else seems to find this the slightest bit odd.

"It's just the way they are," Keiko has confided out of the pair's earshot. "The biggest bet of our year is when they'll figure things out and start dating." Placing 1000 yen on 'Not Before Graduation', the latest in time that the betting pool goes, may be only wishful thinking, but given Kuroba's antics, maybe not.

The rest of Kuroba's energy—which belongs to a child less than half his age—seems to be channeled into other class disruptions, often involving confetti or doves, and only God knows how Kuroba manages to keep a  _dove_  smuggled on his person without anyone in administration intervening. Two, actually, named Yuki and Irene, who perch on Kuroba's shoulders and hair during lunch period and try to steal bits of lunches. Kuroba claims that they only do that to people they like, but given that the Baaya-made bentos have lost tempura and sushi both times they've been eaten in Kuroba's company while Aoko's lunch remains unscathed, it seems justified to remain more than a little skeptical. Animals tend to pick up things from owners, and Kuroba's love of Kid and disdain for Kid's hounds is common knowledge. Once there's energy to spare for anything but passing exams with decent scores, presumably Kid will be the source of more than one argument.

Absurdly, it feels like something to look forward to.

Kuroba may be the class clown, but he's also the first one done for almost every test, even if he stays bent over his desk in a pretense of work until at least three other classmates have finished as well. It's only been noticeable because Kuroba's desk is to the immediate left, and there is an audible difference between a pen scratching kanji and one doodling along the edges of the paper. Why Kuroba wants to hide his competence is difficult to say, but there is a difference between being the class fool, whom everyone likes, and the class brain, whom everyone loves to hate. The fact that Kuroba seems to have realized that fact points to him not only being smart, but  _clever_ —and might help with staying sharp outside of Kid heists, what with Eric not being around to do so.

Now if only Kuroba didn't seem to limit himself to two expressions, either smiling one of a thousand smiles or soberly concentrating. It makes him seem as if he's a Greek actor switching between Tragedy and Comedy Masks as the situation demands, with no place for any real expression behind them. It's impossible not to wonder what happened to prompt such behavior, even though everyone else considers it normal.

It's not. And one doesn't get this far without knowing a fair amount about masks, after all.

The bell ending lunch interrupts all contemplation of Kuroba's mysteries as well as Keiko's half-ignored voice.  _Pulse_ , to prevent any collisions while rising with everyone to return to class.

The dual sensation of ghost-pressure presence and inverted snapshot catches Kuroba's face at an odd angle. There's… something… about the jaw line, when Kuroba's face is neither stretched in a smile nor thoughtfully serious, but somewhere in between. It's familiar, oddly so, but exhaustion precludes determining who else in a thousand faces might look similar to the aspiring magician. There are two and a half more days of mental strain to survive, and the lack of a catnap today will only serve to make things worse.

Still… it would be worth doing again, to receive another of Aoko's vibrant smiles.


	4. Sable

_Thursday, 5 March. 08:22:38._

In a quirk of irony, Kid has seen fit to name the first school day between the end of exams and the end of the school year as the day of his next heist. Between the two, the halls are full of excited chatter.

Dodge schoolmates—there's no rush, the school bell won't ring for another seven minutes and twenty-two seconds—and  _hold_  against the ground just long enough to switch to school slippers with a grace that is not actually reflexive. It's better than teetering when a lack of visual input plays havoc with your balance, and when first formulating the details of the masquerade, Eric had insisted that there be a few ways to show off, if only privately. Whether it's a successful stress release valve or not, still being sane after six-odd years means something is working.

Pointedly ignore the pessimistic inner voice wondering if that something was Eric rather than the occasional private indulgence.

Ignoring is made easier by exchanging greetings with a few classmates on the way to the second floor—technically the third under Japanese convention—eyes theoretically focused on the open criminal forensics article atop the other books. Having a secondary focus during conversations has always worked well, and a reputation as a bookworm is hardly unwelcome. It's always been that way, even before the accident, preferring seclusion to classmates who couldn't keep up. Just Eric was enough.

"Good morning, Kaito!" Stop just outside the classroom door at the delight in Aoko's voice, not wanting to risk interrupting her excitement by entering. A  _pulse_  from around the corner is sufficient to capture her expression, and it's impossible to not _hold_  her in edge, capturing each movement in mind as she speaks. "Did you know I entered a raffle for PrincePrince concert tickets? Guess how I did!"

"You got 'em, right?" Surprisingly, Kuroba's voice is unmistakably apathetic, and his face has temporarily shed the typical theatre-mask countenance to match. Aoko doesn't seem to find this remarkable, either, which is potentially significant.

"Right! I got two tickets!" She cannot be unaware how oddly—'adorable' is the only word that comes to mind—she is with her hands clasped under her chin. She seems determined to present herself as younger than she is, between certain mannerisms and her third-person method of self-reference—that sort of thing seems common among primary and lower secondary school students, not among high schoolers—but after only little over a week's observation determining why is impossible.

"Anyone could figure that out from your face, idiot," Kuroba retorts, level of interest unchanging.

"What's with you?" Aoko demands, disappointment audible. "I was going to ask you to come, but keep it up and I'll ask someone else."

Step inside the room before thought catches up with reflex, silently dropping books on the desk to Kuroba's left as the other teen dismisses Aoko for a second time. This is a perfect opportunity, and Kuroba won't even be able protest.

"How troublesome, my lady."

Cognition still hasn't caught up with instinct. When she turns, the automatic response is to take refuge in a short list of personal information. Their solid truth is a comfort until the realisation hits partway through that as pick-up lines go, this spiel probably belongs solidly in the 'narcissistic twit' category.

Since it can't be taken back and half the classroom has turned to watch, the first attempt to ask a girl out might as well fail with style.

"It would be an honor to accompany you anywhere." Capturing her hand for a brief kiss belongs to a foreign set of manners, the thought hits belatedly, a set somewhat crosswise to the use of polite Japanese, but it's beyond caring about at this point. Odd but harmless, that's all… and the faint pressure of her hand and warmth of her skin reaffirms that all other sensory evidence to the contrary, the world is made of flesh and blood and not of stone.

Inner pessimism rears its head once more to point out that Eric and Aidan used to provide that reassurance, so why choose to leave them behind again? Quash it with such ferocity while focusing edge and gaze on Aoko that the look is probably cross-eyed.

"The man who refuses your offer is not worthy of your company."

"B…But…" She turns her head slightly, sneaking a sidelong glance at Kuroba. It seems the classroom bet on their relationship probably exists for a reason.

"Hmph, a detective who can't catch Kid and the daughter of the Inspector who can't either…" A derisive laugh accompanies Kuroba's manic grin. "You two are well-matched!"

If Kuroba refuses to acknowledge it, however…

"Hey, what do you mean by that?" Aoko protests, turning her back to give Kuroba a hurt look.

A small chuckle escapes. Far be it to ignore a chance to prod the fascinating puzzle that is Kuroba, as well. "You favor Kid so much… How about a wager? Tonight, if I can catch Kid…" Lightly rest a hand on Aoko's shoulder, and wonder if the almost imperceptible movement Kuroba makes when she looks back counts as a twitch. "Would you allow me to go with you?"

Aoko fairly lights up, all smiles again, an image carefully tucked away into memory. "Yeah! If you catch him, we can go to the concert together."

In the unusually quiet noise level of the classroom, Kuroba's faint snigger is easy to pick out. "Hah, like Kaitou Kid will let you catch him."

"Kid is a genius, unlike yourself." At least there is no evidence for such, much less any claim to it on Kuroba's part, not even in jest. Nor does Kuroba have any idea just  _how_  talented Kid truly is, and likely never will.

"I won't use an ordinary trap with him…" In fact, Kid's surprise for tonight took over half of the previous weekend to prepare, collaborating with one of the researchers in Grandfather's lab. "But on the off chance that I lose, I'll concede you the privilege of being Aoko-kun's escort to the concert tonight."

"Interesting!" Sight isn't necessary to sense the growing pressure of Kuroba's full attention, like an invisible storm. Perhaps Kuroba cares for Aoko more than he openly admits. "I don't actually want to go, but I'll accept your challenge. Watching you lose sounds like fun."

Or perhaps Kuroba is simply that Kid-obsessed. It's impossible to tell for sure.

* * *

_12:03:56_

After the drama of the confrontation, the class's relief is almost palpable when Kuroba proceeds to do nothing disruptive through the lunchtime bell. He seems practically attentive, even going so far as to volunteer answers during History and Japanese, though the tell tale sounds of doodling occur during both Mathematics and Chemistry.

At the bell a gaggle of female classmates, judging by the squeals and sudden increase of perfume in the vicinity, promptly descend on Aoko and carry her in their wake to retrieve their lunches. An overhead demand for 'Details!' as they exit the room promptly confirms that inside the building will be an undesirable location for the next thirty minutes. Retreating goes unnoticed by all except possibly Kuroba, and even then the distance makes it uncertain if the pulse-image of Kuroba facing the back of the room means Kuroba is watching him, or watching Aoko's egress, or something else only the magician knows.

There's been a promising tree by the football (traditional, not American) clubhouse, but no opportunity to investigate before today: the week before exams had half the class asking personal questions during lunch period, and then recent days have alternated between eating with Aoko's circle of friends and simply falling asleep across the desk from the moment the morning's last test finished until the post-lunch clean up began. Today is an ideal day to remedy the earlier neglect, winter sun shining through the clouds to lessen the worst of the cold.

Retrieve coat and bento from their places, quickly switch to outdoor shoes and head outside. One quick  _pulse_  reveals the best ascent route, and hooking the bento's wrapping cloth onto one wrist leaves both hands free to climb.

Reach the lowest crook of branches and trunk in a matter of seconds without edge-cheating, and settles experimentally against the smooth bark. The smooth is  _important—_ it's impossible stretch out and nap after eating if the branch is rough against shoulders or chest. Luckily, this tree seems perfectly suitable, and a delighted grin spreads while unpacking lunch in the privacy of ten feet off the ground. Let the grin stay there while eating, because everyone else in the school has better things to do at the moment than look out the window and catch the display of open emotion.

Appetite sated, lean back with hands clasped over the stomach and eyes closed, letting the mind drift. It's not the same as sleep, but it's restful all the same, and letting one's thoughts order themselves on occasion leaves the mind clearer afterward.

Unsurprisingly, said mind wanders back to the puzzle of contradictions that is Kuroba. He's not quite a complete opposite—standing out from the crowd is a similarity, if for different reasons—but he's not like anyone else ever known before, either. There's a carelessness to him, and a certain tone in his voice (when not arguing with Aoko) that feels reminiscent of Eric when sharing a private joke. Kuroba seems to be having his own private joke with the rest of the world.

In the privacy of personal thoughts, it's possible to admit to being faintly jealous of Kuroba's devil-may-care attitude. Planning life down to the minuscule details can't be helped, because there are a dozen things to account for at any given time in order to keep everything running smoothly, what with being stuck not-quite-blind in a world that won't take kindly to discovering that something akin to pressure-telekinesis and (not so theoretically, any more) other edges exist.

Of course, that's assuming that Kuroba's careless approach to life is real, rather than a similarly calculated front to downplay a mind clever enough to blend in, and to detract from how elaborate the planning must be for Kuroba's legendary pranks. Masks inside of masks…

Kuroba's mind should definitely be put to the test.

Easier to deny any personal want, pessimism whispers, hoping for an equal but not being willing to risk a friend.

If Kuroba rises to the bait and turns out to be as smart as suspected, it will confirm the need to take the same care at school as when working with law enforcement.

And Kuroba would be a relatively safe rival, who can't potentially ruin any developing reputation with colleagues who only tolerate their young intruder at the moment. Someone who, unlike Kid, can't disappear while one tries to figure out what makes him tick.

Abruptly sit up and jump lightly to the ground, empty bento box tucked under an arm. There are better things to do than listen to a mental voice when it contradicts sound logic. Especially when it sounds too much like Eric for comfort.

It's easier to consider an appropriate puzzle to drop on Kuroba, one not so easy as to be insulting and not so difficult that he can't at least respond. The rumination serves well as a distraction during clean up and continues in the background through afternoon classes. By final dismissal, settle on the classic, simplest version of the Knights and Knaves puzzle, and need only the best way to make Kuroba unable to ignore it.  _Without_  giving the rumor mill fodder in the meantime—it doesn't bear thinking about what Keiko's compatriots would spin if they saw the note being slipped into Kuroba's shoe locker.

If that happened, Eric would laugh his head off when he heard and say that the consequences were well deserved. To avoid anything of the sort, the best way to approach is to be obvious without being ostentatious. To that end, while the rest of the class gathers their belongings and prepares to scatter to their respective clubs or cleaning duties, pick up the puzzle as written out during the last five minutes of English and set it on Kuroba's desk.

"Eh, what's this?" The self-proclaimed magician pokes the paper gingerly with a finger, as if expecting it to explode.

"Since you're so enamored of an international thief, I thought you should appreciate an international riddle."

"Wow, you wrote it in English, Hakuba-kun?" Keiko declares. "Your writing is so tidy!"

"I've had a great deal of practice." Force the dryness out, Keiko means well. Packs books into their briefcase instead, and  _pulse_. Kuroba's eyes are narrowed faintly, considering. Perfect. "If the English is too difficult for you, Kuroba-kun, I could attempt a Japanese translation…"

If it weren't impossible, the grin revealed by a subsequent  _pulse_  would almost seem to have fangs. "Nah. Stuff always gets lost in translation." The paper rustles as Kuroba folds and tucks it away somewhere. "Have fun losing at the heist tonight, Hakuba-kun."

This time, allow the dry sarcasm free reign. "I'm sure I'll manage somehow."

Either Kid will be caught, or Kuroba will go with Aoko to the concert tonight. Either way, Aoko will be happy. It's possible to be content for the time being with that.

However, since accompanying Aoko to the concert is so desirable, it's time to bloody well make Kid  _work_  for the heist this evening.


	5. Argent

_Thursday, 5 March. 17:12:00._

Luckily, transferring so late in the year means no after-school club commitments for the time being. There's a certain satisfaction from arriving at the museum with exactly twenty-eight minutes to spare. The sun will be almost setting now, since Kid's promised arrival time is just after when twilight should begin.

_Pulse._

Policemen are everywhere, concentrated around the statue Kid promises to steal—really, how does Kid plan to  _lift_  the thing? It's cast bronze!—and off to one side, Nakamori's boisterous gravel explains the police's precautions to a news camera.

Skirting around them to reach the statue is not exactly hiding from the interview, an impossible task given the deerstalker and Inverness ( _harmless, odd but harmless_ ). However, despite gaining a reputation in London, previous interviews always included Eric as buffer and the change isn't a delightful prospect. Kneel in front of the target and double-check the preventative measure added alone earlier this week, in the outfit of a metal worker. Easier to allow the police and museum staff to each credit the other with adding the thick bronze chain between the statue base and the floor of the exhibit room—responsible adults tend to frown on a teenager wielding a welding torch.

"And now, let's interview the famous detective Hakuba Saguru!"

Don't act like you heard that from so far across the room, most sighted people don't have hearing acuity in noise so finely tuned…

"He's, um… Ah!" Stay bent over the chain as her heels click across the marble floor. "What are you doing, Hakuba-kun?"

Focus. Calm. Aoko will be watching the heist's broadcast tonight.

…Focus.

"We have to take every precaution, because—" face the camera, eyes focused for just the few crucial seconds, "—tonight's face-off has extra significance to me." Turn back to the statue. Aoko will understand, and it won't hurt for the rest of the television audience be left with an air of mystery.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid it's a personal matter, madam."

"Ahh, so cruel to our viewers! Will you tell us why you decided to chase Kid, Hakuba-kun?"

_Because he's safe. Because he can keep_ _you_ _sane while letting Eric pursue his own interests for the first time in years rather than feel obligated to be_ _your_ _eyes._

Stick to the third truth. "Because I find his  _modus operandi_  intriguing. What sort of man makes a game of breaking the law?"

"You'll treat us to your famous question if you catch him, right?"

It's still uncertain which reporter decided to hype genuine investigation of the criminal mindset as a 'signature question', but it's always better to go with the flow of mass media than against it.

"Of course. A man's character is formed by what drives him to act. To understand the man, you must understand his motives." Let one hand trace the watch in its pocket. Ten minutes and forty-one seconds left. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Nakamori-keibu…"

Escape complete, approach Nakamori as the officers finish another round of checking in, no news to report. Ask, as if the past two days haven't been spent adding an extra surprise to the police's infrared sensors, "Keibu, how many officers are guarding the basement?"

"None!" Nakamori boasts. "Kid isn't stupid enough to take on the automatic sensors."

Don't smirk.

"Of course. Don't let me get in your way…" Wander downstairs to the basement. Yamamura, from Grandfather's lab, helped implement the primary preparations here. The infrared is active now, but light and pressure don't interact; visualising the room doesn't set the alarms off, but it doesn't reveal where the beams fall either. A small area by the door is sufficient, though, to lurk in the shadows by a certain wall switch.

Five minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Sound at the far wall—metal creaks, followed by the distinctive clang of an air duct grille popping off. It shouldn't be enough to summon an adrenaline grin, but knowing that this heist involves going up against an  _edge_ …

"Kaitou Kid has arrived!" Silence, silence, wait for the right moment. "They think sensors can stop me?"

_Pulse._

Strange. Kid is halfway out of the air duct, white suit and cape and hat, but somehow the part of his face not covered by a pair of night vision goggles is half-blurred. His lips are parted in a possibly cocky grin, but when trying to analyse the shape of cheeks and jaw the bone structure refuses to be cataloged. Memory confirms that oddly enough, this was true the first time as well, but the fact simply hadn't processed. Without having met Akako, it might not have been noticeable even  _this_  time.

…Which suggests that Akako may also have an edge—it would certainly explain how she managed Valentine's Day, except for Kuroba. Maybe it's possible to be immune to certain things. Not enough information. But if she and Kid  _both_  have edges… Bloody hell. Tokyo  _is_  a weirdness magnet.

If Akako has an edge, hers would have to be part of her whole person, making her stand out and blend in as she pleases, but perhaps Kid's could be concentrated in the symbol of being Kid, to blur only face and nothing else. Anyone can wear a white suit, after all; the monocle and hat (and possibly cape) are what make the thief's costume unique.

Does that blur only affect a pulse, or does it affect normal vision, as well? It might explain Kid's ability to stay anonymous with so much of his face open to exposure…

"Made it!"

Startle and  _pulse_ , realising that Kid has taken advantage of the mental preoccupation to ascend using—good God, that's a grappling plunger like some window washers use. What kind of supplier does the man have?

"That's far enough, Kaitou Kid!"

"What?" Kid is far too easily surprised. Perhaps he's unaccustomed to being anticipated, if the Task Force is all the challenge he's had.

There's no one else to see; it's safe to indulge in a flair for the dramatic with only another showman as the audience. "Let's open the curtain on tonight's circus!"

Flick the switch, reach inside the Inverness. Valves in the air duct behind open on cue, releasing Grandfather's prized anaesthetic gas in its first utilisation since mass production received the green light. Watch without breathing as the formula quickly billows toward the ceiling. If Kid succumbs and falls from his precarious perch, he can be easily caught by a strong edge-pulse; otherwise, using the edge on a person is cheating, violating the pride of a detective and risking exposure besides.

_What magic will you perform tonight, Kid? A trick sufficient to escape this trap?_

"I see… during the circus finale, there's always a smokescreen, right?" Kid sounds far too confident, and unaffected so far.

"Surrender, if you would." There's no call being rude between professionals, since the gas mask retrieved from a coat pocket guarantees that clean air won't be in short supply afterward. "It's your loss."

"Really? How about if I…"

Kid doesn't finish his sentence—that's easy enough to predict. However, even knowing what will happen doesn't make a difference when one moment Kid is clinging to his tether line with one hand and holding an object too bulky to be a real gun in the other, and the very next moment there is a sound not quite like a gunshot effectively simultaneous to a  _playing card_  knocking the face mask into the air.

"Damn it!" Ignore the hand feeling half-raw from the mask ripping away; Kid has already dropped the two stories from ceiling to floor in another disorienting time-distortion that seems to let him reach the ground before gravity accelerates him to an unsafe landing speed. Lunge for the mask instead, there's still a chance to reach it before Kid does and that much movement will have tripped the sensors' silent alarm to alert Nakamori…

Collision is inevitable, but it still takes sheer force of will to not react beyond a breathless grunt when— _augh!_ —in the struggle to get ahead, Kid's fingers dig into some of the hypersensitive skin on a shoulder and an elbow knocks into a similar patch around the right-hand third and fourth ribs.

_Don't react don't react can't hit him with the edge_ _ **don't react**_ …

Iron control holds firm.

Unfortunately, the concentrated calm necessary to keep from lashing out with a high-pressure wave requires  _breathing_ , and gives Kid the opportunity to surge forward. There's just enough time to hear Kid don the mask and… walk closer rather than away.

Apparently being a gentleman thief requires catching one's opponents before they can face-plant into concrete as the darkness of sedation takes over.

Bugger.

* * *

_??:??:??_

Cherries. Everything tastes like cherries. Grandfather had mentioned that if you were going to knock someone out it might as well be a pleasant, but… cherries? Really? The smell had vaguely registered earlier, but it had been buried beneath more important considerations like not throwing Kid into a wall.

_Kid!_

_Pulse._

The room is one of the galleries adjacent to the heist target's display, a padded seat usually reserved for footsore visitors playing temporary bed. The museum is quiet, only a few junior officers moving about the statue gallery where said statue is, fortunately, still present. Kid must be long gone, judging by the time that should have passed unconscious from inhaling that much gas—

Wait one blinking minute… automatically reaching for the pocket watch comes up with nothing but pleated trousers and empty air, because the requisite coat pocket is missing.

Kid stole the  _Inverness_ , the bloody little sod!

Sitting up, woozy light-headedness demands no further movement unless absolutely necessary for a few more minutes at least. Run a hand through already-disheveled hair. Two days of preparation and it culminates in a headache, no win, no capture, and given the probable time Aoko and Kuroba are likely enjoying the music concert together by now.

"Damn it." The coat had better still be somewhere in the museum, or all promises of fair play are off. The coat itself is easily replaced but  _Grandda's watch_  was in there—inherited when the man died and prompted their relocation to England. It's silver, monogrammed with both grandparents' initials, and one of rather few unique possessions.

Breathe. Don't start contemplating revenge for something that may not be permanent. Gingerly stand and weave across the room to the adjacent gallery instead, hoping to find all missing property or otherwise catch someone's attention.

"Ah! Hakuba-kun!" Swift footsteps across tile herald the approach of an officer whose voice is familiar, one of the rookies who promised to help with the paperwork Nakamori is going to insist on if this attachment to the Kid Task Force lasts longer than a month. Murakami Kenji, memory supplies.

_Pulse,_  grateful that disorientation can cover for unfocused and half-lidded eyes while examining the far side of the room. The distant wall is clearer now that it's closer—a pulse's range for fine detail is limited by the nature of pressure, especially when keeping the edge below the average threshold of human somatosensory awareness.

The  _pulse_  catches Murakami in its wake, defining sharp-angled fine bone structure and an even sharper gaze, softened by a genial disposition. In fact, taking in the jaw line for the man's almost-smile, an abrupt sense of déjà vu heralds the realisation that Murakami looks vaguely like Kuroba.

…Kuroba must never realise this, or the magician may take a page from Kid's book and try infiltrating the police force for a chance to be up close and personal with his idol.

"Hello, Murakami-keiji. Kid got away?"

"Yes, but Nakamori-keibu protected the statue!" Murakami sounds almost as proud as if he'd done so himself. "Kid, er… appeared from the ladder access below disguised as you…"

"I assumed as much, as he apparently took my coat."

"Yes, it was an incredible disguise. No one realised it wasn't you until we found you in the basement, and Kid tried to float away with the statue. The big chain stopped him, though, and Nakamori-keibu shot a hole in his hot air balloon."

Don't smirk, even if  _your_ plan B is what kept the target safe in the end.

"I hope he didn't fly away with my coat still in his possession."

"Oh! No, it's been taken to the station… Nakamori-keibu insisted the clothes and latex be checked for fingerprints and DNA, just in case." The man bows slightly. "Since it's yours, I'm sure you'll be able to pick it up by tomorrow morning, Hakuba-kun."

Father's position shows its influence once more. It still comes as a surprise at times, because the promotion occurred only a few years ago and has hardly had any impact on life in England.

Bow back, a hair lower—the man is almost a decade older, after all—and shelve all thoughts of a retaliatory volley until the next Kid note comes around. "Thank you; that should be fine."

"Good… Do you need a ride home? I know most of your personal effects must have been in there…"

Checking trouser pockets reveals both wallet and mobile.

…They'd been in the Inverness's outer pockets. What kind of thief steals a coat but takes the time to relocate the primary possessions first? While still keeping the secondary and no less  _important_  possessions, just to be provoking.

Apparently, it's the kind who delights in contradictions and driving the rest of the world absolutely barmy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keibu: Police Inspector.
> 
> Murakami Kenji is a Task Force rookie who resembles Kaito somewhat. Shamelessly stolen from the mind of Ellen Brand, because we collaborate together enough that the plotbunnies cross-contaminate.


	6. Emerald

_Tuesday, 17 March. 08:44:32._

Saint Patrick's day.

The constraints of the school uniform (dark navy with brass buttons and a white undershirt, Baaya described back on the first day of school) means that today's outfit has no green. However, the fact that Japan doesn't celebrate the holiday should have been enough to stay safe.

Should have.

There is no good reason to be sitting in homeroom, trying to process what in the name of Holmes Kuroba just did to your hair. The magician has only been fully mobile for all of two days, free of the ankle brace he'd acquired the night of the last Kid heist, falling down the stairs of a friend of the family's billiard hall. (A visit last weekend had made Konosuke Jii's acquaintance and a standing invitation to return for another game, but that's not important right now.) Kuroba should not be just outside of arm's reach among a circle of on-looking classmates, ignoring the teacher as she tries to restore order and grinning like a fiend.

"Aoko-kun?" Calm. A frozen calm, because personal appearance is one of few things always within control and Kuroba just stole that— _bloody git_ —but calm nonetheless. "What did Kuroba-kun just do?"

"Um..." Aoko is one of few classmates trying to hide her amusement, but her voice betrays her.

"It's probably better to just show you," Keiko pipes up. "Here, I have a mirror..."

Close eyes before she can position the small compact in front of them and force a wry smile to appear. Damn  _and_ blast Kuroba for forcing a tricky situation so soon. Nothing feels particularly different, so the most logical conclusion would be hair dye, but it's not a complete guarantee. The only way out of this is a gamble, and risk and chance of any degree are hateful with a passion matched only by love of Holmes.

"I'm afraid that will make no difference, Keiko-kun, but thank you." Very carefully keep the smile wry, edging on a smirk, not bittersweet. "I'm colourblind, you see."

 _Pulse_ ,  _and hold._

The ring of classmates seems to breathe in simultaneously, several of the more flirtatious girls adding a chorus of "Oh…"s. Aoko's expression is softened in sympathy as well, so perhaps the admittance isn't entirely a loss. Kuroba… has narrowed his eyes. How interesting. He hasn't entirely swallowed the excuse.

"Red-green colourblind, Hakuba-kun? You'd never know it…" At least Keiko is kind enough to give some hint as to the colour. Again, given the day, green hair seems to be the likely suspect, but this is Kuroba. The magician refuses to follow the normative curve at any point so far observed, so the odds of green are approximately the same as the odds of, say, orange.

Though that might lead to worrying implications of exactly how much Kuroba knows about British culture and the family leanings, and the even more pertinent question of  _why_.

Best not to speculate, really.

Run a hand through the hair in question, instead, and privately wonder how on earth Kuroba pulled it off. Commercial dyes don't  _work_ this fast, even if said hair is now wet.

"Acquired monochromatic." More sympathetic noises from the girls, and even a few winces from the other boys. Though Kuroba appears to still be watching thoughtfully. "Is there anything else you'd like to contribute, Kuroba-kun? I'm afraid I don't know the official diagnosis's proper translation into Japanese…"

Cerebral achromatopsia is a wonderfully convenient excuse, and even plausible for this situation. Not to mention, cynicism adds, technically accurate. No lie is so powerful as the partial truth.

Kuroba grins breezily. "Nah, I'll leave off at giving you green hair."

It's such an innocent smile. Pity it trips every instinct as false cover. "How traditional."

"Traditional?" Aoko's brow furrows, a reminder that Kuroba's eclectic knowledge is not widely shared.

 _Don't wonder where it comes from. Just use it as one more piece of evidence that Kuroba-kun is far more competent than he lets on._ The evidence has been growing quickly, aided by the continuing exchange of riddles over the past week and a half. Kuroba included a complicated variant of the River Crossing logic puzzle with his answer to the Knights and Knaves puzzle, and there's been a slow escalation from there.

Though the intention is to probe Kuroba's intelligence, and all data collected supports the conclusion that precautions should be taken to avoid revealing too much around the magician, the battle of wits has been… enjoyable. Except for having apparently become fair game for Kuroba's elaborate pranks.

"March 17th is a holiday associated with green in most English-speaking countries, Aoko-kun. Kuroba-kun apparently decided to join in the festivities."

"Ohhh." Aoko's sudden understanding should not be worrying. "Kaito loves Western culture and holidays."

One of the boys, Yamada, adds, "He covered the classroom with cut-out animal shadows early last month, and made a hat like the American flag appear on Tokomi-sensei's head during history class right before you transferred."

"I see."

"This is a  _classroom_ , not a circus," their poor, put-upon teacher finally manages to interject. "If you're quite finished with your entertainment, we can continue with the class business."

"Sorry, sensei!" Kuroba's voice isn't audible in the chorused apology, but instead the other teen offers Kuroyama-sensei a conjured long-stem rose and a charming smile before returning to his seat. Against all logic, the woman smiles in a manner consistent with blushing and all seems forgiven.

Except for still having green hair. Blast.

* * *

It's a relief to be able to listen to the teachers and ignore almost everything else for the rest of the morning. By restricting the  _pulse_  for the writing on the board, it's possible to pretend no one is sneaking glances and there's nothing atypical to see. Class breaks require more concentration, however, as Keiko and a few others ask what it's like to be colourblind and how it happened.

Brush them off with calculated carelessness, downplaying any sense of difference that tries to linger. Phrases like "It was a long time ago" and "I hardly remember anything else" are priceless for their bland neutrality. The less amount of furor the admission can draw, the better.

The lunch bell heralds escape outside to the perch of a tree, to eat in peace. Aoko and Keiko extend an invitation to join their company, but the need for solitude, out of reach of rumourmongers, is practically tangible. Of course, school gossip will run at full throttle anyway, might even reach the level of flat-out legally blind by the end of lunch. Most likely, it will take the rest of the week for any immediate classmates to correct the misinformation with the truth even though all visible behaviour clearly contradicts the rumour.

For a given value of truth.

Stretch out for a brief nap, only to be interrupted by Baaya's mobile ring—and she's not one who would call during school hours unless it's important.

"Hakuba here."

The greeting is leftover from the days when answering Eric's mobile accidentally was almost as likely as not. Since neither sweet-talking a girl or sabotaging Eric's relationships are appealing, it's old habit to self-identify upon answering the phone and resort to other methods for the brotherly duty of twitting Eric.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Saguru-botchama, but an urgent request arrived from England earlier this morning. A Madam Eastley received a death threat this past evening. The police have promised to do their best, but she is not satisfied with leaving it at that. She heard what you did for Mr. Swanson, and offered both one and a half times your typical consulting fee and to include travel costs in your expenses."

…She must be truly worried. Travel between Tokyo and England, even one-way, is extraordinarily expensive on short notice.

Calculate the costs and benefits of taking the case. Returning to England is already scheduled for next Friday, when the term ends, because missingAidan's birthday at the end of March is not an option. Even plane rides are infinitely preferable to disappointing little brothers. Going now will skip out on the last week of classes, but… everything being covered now Professor Sandoval went over months ago, not counting Japanese History where  _nothing_  makes sense, and the end of term ceremony is one it won't hurt to miss.

No open cases since the day before yesterday… and while Kid's latest heist notice was reported early this morning, the heist time is tomorrow night. Facing off against Kid with only 24 hours to prepare in such an open venue as the bloody clock tower across from the Police Station risks something occurring that can't be safely tracked unnoticed by bystanders—and after this morning, taking more risks than necessary is out for the moment. Kid is almost certain to be available to chase at leisure until the opportune moment to catch him appears.

"Saguru-botchama?"

"Ahh… Please make arrangements for the next available flight. I'll contact her for details once the time difference is acceptable."

"Of course. I'll pick you up when your classes finish, or call again if the first available flight leaves before 19:00."

"Thank you. If you could inform father and grandfather as well, I'll speak with mother myself."

"Certainly. She'll be glad to hear from you."

"Oh, and I'll need a bottle of hair bleach and time enough to use it before the flight, as well."

The rise of her eyebrows is practically audible. "Dare I ask?"

"I was assaulted by a rogue classmate this morning."

"Oh, the indigenous life of public education is a wild and dangerous lot, I understand."

Smile, amused. "Quite so. As I've been told my hair defies description, I'll leave your imagination free reign until then."

"I'm afraid I have no imagination, but I appreciate the thought."

The smile softens. "Haven't you, then? It only required one accidental demonstration for you to believe in my… ability."

"Well… perhaps a smidgen, when it comes to you three."

"Of course. I'll tell mother you say hello."

When the call ends, discover via pocketwatch that only five more minutes remain for lunch, not enough time to nap. And everyone in England will be sound asleep so early in the morning.

Don't sigh. It's a bad habit to start, no matter how nice it would be to hear Eric's voice right now. It's easy to imagine the response to hearing, 'I have a case and I'm coming home early. And my hair is green.'

' _They obviously bought the excuse if you're not adding "for good", but who do I need to prank for your hair?'_

The thought of collaborating with Eric on some form of retaliation is rather cheering, really. Maybe the green hair will bolster a harmless reputation, but the risks and revelations were too great to want to let it simply slide. The prospect of plotting keeps a faint smile present through returning to class.

"Did something happen during lunch, Hakuba-kun?" Keiko asks. "You seem happy."

"You could say that…" Turning towards the desk rather than look through her, a  _pulse_  finds that it obligingly has a paper bear on it that wasn't there before. For some reason, Kuroba folds his side of the puzzle-exchanges into origami, so that the first challenge is working out how to open the bloody things without ripping the written challenge within to shreds. Pride forbids making any comment, but between a horse, a cat, a bear, and green hair, it's tempting to write the next riddle in  _cipher_.

At least it will be a welcome distraction while on the plane. Carefully flatten and slip it inside the history textbook while explaining, "I received a call regarding an urgent case in England, actually. I'm afraid I'll be leaving tonight and won't return until the new term begins."

_Pulse._

The surrounding faces look disappointed, even Aoko's. Perhaps an absence might create favour... but not likely.

"Why so long, Hakuba-kun? What about the heist tomorrow night?" For some reason, thoughts of the clock tower add an almost melancholy undertone to her voice. "Don't you want to protect it?"

Perhaps the clock holds some significance for her. Blast, the case is already taken and a still-small reputation can't afford the consequences of backing out. "I would never back down from a challenge from Kid if your father weren't already on the case to thwart him, Aoko-kun."

That's a lie, cynicism whispers as she smiles. A dangerous criminal will always have priority over a pacifist thief.

"I wouldn't normally be so long in England, but I have business there that will detain me through the beginning of April."

Aidan is hardly a secret—anyone with an internet connection can easily find knowledge of the family, and their birthdays. (Eric laughed himself sick when he found the first Hakuba Saguru fansite, at least until discovering that the forums had an entire section dedicated to  _him_.) After this morning, however, any further personal revelation holds little appeal. They're going to speculate to high heaven about the 'acquired' aspect of the colourblind claim anyway, so why not leave another avenue for the gossips to exhaust themselves on?

"Oh… But you will be coming back for sure, right?" Keiko asks. "Don't let Kuroba-kun get to you, he's like that to everyone."

The truth of that statement is easily apparent, given that several classmates have confetti-size shamrock shapes in their hair and others bear the pale outline of what must be stickers on their skin and clothes.

"I assure you, Keiko-kun, Kuroba-kun has no bearing on my precipitous leave. Death threat cases have something of a deadline." A chance to step back and think rationally about the entire situation is merely a bonus.

Kuroba is so busy accosting the newly-arrived math teacher for wearing no green that he doesn't appear to have heard.


	7. Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DC/MK characters belong to Gosho Aoyama. Various minor OCs in England belong to themselves.

_Tuesday, 17 March. 16:15:04._

Of all the roles Baaya plays as personal assistant, chauffeur is possibly the most appreciated. After a long day concentrating on too many things at once, the respite from an hour long trek using public transportation is a godsend. Slip into the passenger seat and deliberately remember the gratitude when she does not entirely suppress a smile at the dye-job. At least she's left the convertible top up in anticipation of hiding the colour from the general public, but with the windows cracked. It lessens the feeling of being trapped in an opaque bubble, which never fails to occur when fully enclosed inside anything smaller than a large room.

"I see my imagination is quite inadequate once again."

Smile rather than sigh. "How bad is it? I didn't inquire into the exact shade."

"It wouldn't have done much good if you had. You're striped, my boy."

"Oh, God." No wonder Keiko offered a mirror. And while neither mortified blushing nor slouching in one's seat are dignified, it's hard to care when no one but Baaya is present to see. "If any pictures somehow make their way to Eric, my vengeance will be swift."

She laughs, albeit kindly. The woman who cleaned up the food fights of at least four joint birthdays while mother took pictures of the evidence has earned the right to a bit of light teasing.

Baaya continues, "Well, I daresay the bleach will work just as well on orange as green. It's waiting for you at the house; you'll have an hour before we should leave for the airport. Your ticket is in the overnight bag on your bed, and Eric-botchama will receive no pictures from me."

"Thank you, Baaya. You're an angel."

"Nothing wrong with a picture for my own scrapbook, of course…"

Facepalming is, in this instance, necessary. Forbidding pictures altogether is an option, but she does so much—relocating around the world for a third time and keeping the whole house besides father in the dark, just for starters—that she deserves some small pleasures.

"I'll take solace in the knowledge that Eric has no access to it, then."

The rest of the car ride passes quickly. Make a beeline from the garage to the house proper, wolf a light dinner at Baaya's insistence, and fill the rest of the hour with bleaching and re-dyeing to achieve what she declares is the typical blond-brown shade.

"You look quite presentable, Saguru-kun."

"I'm not wearing a shirt, Baaya." None of them are old or casual enough to risk around bleach. The one pair of blue jeans brought over from England remains so otherwise neglected in Japan that a stray drop won't matter.

"That's not presentable?"

"Baaya!"

* * *

Teasing aside, Baaya is entirely professional when it comes to preparing for a trip. There are even two small tubes with discreet labeling in concave Braille tucked into the travel bag's outside pocket: one labeled 'migraine', and one labeled 'plane'. Take two of the latter once boarding is about to begin, because being unconscious for at least half of the twelve hour flight is preferable to any alternatives, even if the plane will be landing close to midnight local time.

The late landing is why as of yet only Madam Eastley has received a phone call, to arrange a meeting tomorrow, even after everyone at home would be awake. If they knew about the flight, Mother and Eric would show up at the airport regardless of the time, but there's no need for them to lose the sleep on a weeknight. Taking a taxi from the airport does not require an escort.

Though conversation with the cabbie may not be precisely civil at that point.

The plan actually works—with the exception of Kid, they usually do—and by the time the plane is taxiing down the runway for takeoff, sleep takes over in an irresistible tidal wave. However, the regrettable side effect of success is waking up five hours outside of Heathrow so wide-awake that nothing will change it.

The other regrettable factor is how thoughts always goes from 0 to 100 kilometres per hour directly upon rousing, and it's very difficult to make them change tracks once a train of logic has begun. As case in point, the immediate waking thought is how yesterday morning could have easily ruined everything, with only sheer luck letting it end otherwise, and nothing will silence nor distract its ruminating.

Fishing the origami bear out of the Japanese history book (the other textbooks are safe at home, but this one needs as much study time as possible) merely serves to remind that the entire situation is self-inflicted. Interacting with Kuroba is a double-edged sword, and willful ignorance of the warning signs brought that realisation about nearly too late. And for what? A  _challenge._

It should have been obvious that attempting to recreate the battle of wits with Eric was asking for trouble. Excusing it as assessing Kuroba's capabilities ignores that there are safer methods for that than a flat-out public competition. Not to mention that Kid is proving to require more effort than originally anticipated, just to keep up. Between Kid and more mundane cases—and who can say no to a client truly in need?—there's more than enough fodder to stay sharp without Kuroba complicating things.

Perhaps damage control will be feasible. Kuroba doesn't seem to have the attention span God gave a ferret unless it comes to pranks, Aoko, or Kid. Stop being remarkable—cease the puzzle-exchange, tone down interest in Aoko, decline more lunchtime invitations—the amateur magician and professional prankster may move on to a new target before his attentions can out the secret and ruin all the work already put into it.

It's worth a try, at any rate; better to deny curiosity than risk being exposed. The beginning of the new term should do to implement the plan. There's even a slim chance that some less than perfect test scores will shift classroom assignment out of Kuroba and Aoko's come April. Beyond history's difficulties, there's academic-level Japanese proficiency in general, which is more rigorous than simple conversational fluency.

However, given typical luck… it's not going to happen.

When it registers that one hand has begun absently massaging around eyes and nose bridge, shift to pick up the bear instead. Even if not reciprocating with a new puzzle, the last such one received from Kuroba deserves to be solved, at least. If the infuriating thing will ever unfold, first.

And the animal has no eyes to stare with, so there's no logical reason why it seems to be giving off a reproachful look. Turn the featureless paper face away regardless, until it becomes clear how to deconstruct it.

Taking things apart has always been a talent. It's part of being a reputable detective.

* * *

_Wednesday, 18 March. 01:20:50_

Between Kuroba's logic puzzle and the  _Hound of the Baskerville's_  audiobook, the plane ride ends relatively quickly. Navigating Heathrow Airport is blessedly simple at the midnight hour, and not even Customs can create too long of a delay. Contrary to previous prediction, the thought of being home makes interaction with the cabbie quite cheerful, and the drive into Mary-le-bone speeds by with pleasant enough chatter.

Once dropped off at the house's front gates, the entrance code and short walk to the front door are easily accomplished despite thick fog. Retrieving the house key and slipping inside takes another moment, but more care to ensure that the heavy oak door closes noiselessly. Shucking coat and shoes in the entry porch is similarly hushed; the entire point of this exercise is to not wake the sleeping residents, after all. Even if the bedrooms are all as far from the front door as is architecturally possible.

There is no need for a pulse when you know the steps upstairs to your room by heart, and Mrs. Baker would never dream of cluttering the grand open space of the main entry. The faint crackle of flame in the long gallery's fireplaces—even in March, no central heating makes the house freezing at night otherwise—at the top of the stairs is plenty welcome home. And there's a portable heater in the bedroom, which will be warm en—

"Niichan!" Twenty kilograms of little brother up  _hours_  past bedtime impacts with staggering momentum.

"Wha…" Let the legs buckle to preclude falling over backwards, sitting amidst laughter from Eric and Mother across the hall. Aidan instantly snuggles close, pyjama flannel-clad arms locking like steel bands around the neck since torso is off-limits for hugging tight.

"Welcome home!"  _Pulse_  reveals Aidan's beaming face, with Eric and Mother also smiling as they leave the armchairs that frame the middle fireplace.

"I… but…" Surprise does nothing to prevent a delighted grin from spreading, even as realisation dawns of who the culprit behind this ambush must be. "I suppose Baaya called you anyway?"

"Of course she did, little brother." A hair-ruffle is Eric's greeting before joining the hug, arms wrapping one to a brother possessively. "Did you really think we'd just  _miss_  your first homecoming?"

Lean back and revel in their undemanding presence, letting Eric play support, before curling around Aidan's mop of wavy curls to inhale soap intermingling with Eric's faded sandalwood cologne and wood smoke. "You could have, but I'm glad you didn't."

Baaya definitely deserves a thank you of some Rococo chocolates from High Street.

"Of course!" Aidan giggles at the brush of nose in his hair and snuggles closer. "We missed you."

"I missed you too, gremlin." Smile still spreading, raise one arm toward Mother, who has been waiting patiently for a greeting. "It's wonderful to see you."

For a given value of 'see', of course, but social niceties are biased toward the sighted.

Feel her hand, soft and delicate, and a kiss pressed gently against the top of the head. She smells of rose petals and ink and peppermint tea. "Welcome home."

"Thank you. I suppose Grandmother is already asleep?"

"Yes, one of the charities has a committee meeting early tomorrow, but she gives her love and will greet you properly afterward."

"At a proper time," Eric falsettos, earning more muted laughter.

"Now, Eric…" Mother admonishes, but with rueful humour.

"I speak only the truth, Mother dear." Ah, yes, innocence personified. And Keiko wonders how it's always obvious when a Kuroba-prank has been set in motion, even before the results manifest.

Feel the sarcastic snort echoed by a yawn from Aidan as adrenaline fades away to exhaustion, small arms slipping loose as he curls up with a sleepy murmur. Tuck Aidan more securely and reply with voice low, but there's no need to whisper. Aidan has always liked hearing the muted rumble of speech via ribcage, even as an infant.

"Your version of it, at least. I distinctly recall claims of a three-legged pirate riding a centaur as an explanation for why the pantry was devoid of chocolate biscuits when we were eight."

"I was framed, I say. The dastard also stole the milk jug."

"After we stole it first. I thought Mrs. Baker was going to faint when she caught us and you whipped up that tale, she was laughing so hard."

"Ah, but you were the one who told Professor Aberdeen that Sherlock Holmes confiscated our homework as evidence."

"I know. I should have gone with Inspector Lestrade, but I suppose I'm a purist."

"My aspiring thespians." Mother's hand strokes a cheek caress, fond gesture so familiar vision is unnecessary to know that her other is mirroring the action with Eric. Her dry amusement leaves no question as to who had such a sense of humour first.

"We aim to please." Eric mirrors the response perfectly, unintended; promptly dissolve into snickers together. The line is forever doomed to invoke flashbacks of the ill-fated two-boy-and-three-pet play performed for the house staff at age nine. Grandmother's horrified shriek upon walking in on the final curtain call, complete with tomato-pasted sheet-togas and flour dusting half the living room's surfaces, had been met with twin bows and the same brazen line, albeit delivered with more bravado and less humour.

Mother missed the whole affair, but heard enough retellings from all involved that she also chuckles at the memory. "Perhaps I should revise that to 'my little terrors'."

"Not so little any more—that's reserved for our apprentice." Run a gentle hand across Aidan's face, memorizing every curve all over again. Without anticipation acting as a bolster, the battle for wakefulness has been lost, and Aidan is still young enough to sleep like a log. No complaints at the dead weight, however. Only when Aidan falls asleep is there a chance to anchor into sense-memory the warm reality beneath his appearance. Aidan knows that his big brother sees things differently from the rest of them, but almost six is still too young for a secret as big as the full truth.

"Of course; I do apologise for my mistake. My  _teenage_  terrors."

"And all the more frightening for it." Eric is grinning. But then, the grin is mirrored.

"So you are. I'm afraid I have a meeting tomorrow myself, and should turn in… I won't tell you to go to bed, but don't forget you still have school in the morning, Eric."

"It won't be the first time I've stayed up late."

"No, nor the first time you've 'mysteriously' overslept." Her tone is too fond for it to be a true reprimand. "I'll trust you to see Aidan to bed, as well. Pleasant dreams."

Return the sentiment together, and her soft footfalls fade into the far side of the house. Eric's arm shifts to ruffle hair on the nape of the neck. "Come on, let's get to your room. This rug isn't thick enough to do my bruises any favors."

Almost protest, more comfortable now than for the past weeks despite the hardwood floor hiding beneath the hall rug, but nod instead. For Eric to be sore enough to complain, there must be a lot of them. "Practice, or a game? I know you had one Saturday…"

"The game." Eric's tone as he takes possession of the travel bag is full of manly pride. "We won, even though Will sprained his arm during a scrum and Cecil had to take over as flyhalf, and then Terry twisted his ankle with thirty seconds to go in the second half." Insane, manly pride.

"If there's anything I'm grateful I can't see," announce blandly while standing with Aidan, "it's your rugger games."

"Hey, it's no more dangerous than going after a suspect with only each other as backup."

"Baka." Aoko and Kaito have had too many arguments in earshot; switching from English just long enough to use the more fitting Japanese insult is almost automatic. "If a suspect tried to attack us, I'd crunch the weapon or throw him into the wall first."

All other concerns about using edge aside, it can't be justified when the people bent on beating Eric up are peers, and technically within their rights for the game.

An added rustle of cloth beyond walking movements suggests a shrug from Eric. "Card-carrying adrenaline junkie, remember? You made the card yourself."

Eric's last comment is a deliberate, obvious ploy of distraction, but it works. The small piece of cardboard had been the first completed project that resulted from six months fighting with a Braille keyboard, voice recognition software, and text-to-speech software, because it's not an option to give up using a computer simply because the bloody screen is a flat white square. The reminiscently triumphant smile spreading is justified. Really.

"I remember."

Eric squeezes a shoulder at the satisfied tone, and then the door to the right opens just as instinct pipes up that they've walked the requisite number of steps from the stairs to reach the bedroom.

"Anyway, you're lucky Baaya called ahead, otherwise John wouldn't have known to give you a fire." Sure enough, the heat and crackle from the fireplace on the far side of the room is unmistakable, though stronger than it should be for so late at night.

"Which you bolstered?" No wonder Eric smells of wood smoke.

"I had some firewood left over after refueling the one in the long gallery we were using, and thought I might as well."

"Thank you." The heater would have been sufficient, but the sound of wood burning is far more soothing than a mechanical whirr. Juggle Aidan's limp form carefully, pulling back the covers and tucking him snugly beneath the blankets. Aidan mumbles in sleepy protest, shifting a few times in reaction to the colder environment, before subsiding.

Technically, Aidan could have been settled into his own room and smaller bed five strides further down the hall. However, this bed is plenty large enough for one full and one miniature-size person, and Aidan seems to be clingy enough that complaints about dignity aren't likely to crop up come morning.

"So how was your flight?" Eric's voice asks from the desk, small swift thunks denoting the unpacking of what in the travel bag isn't a spare change of clothes. "Baaya mentioned you had a case, but you can catch me up on that tomorr—Hey, what's this?" A crinkle of paper. "…Bloody hell, just reading this makes my brain hurt. Give me cryptography any day. From your crazy classmate?"

"Well, Kid is hardly is hardly going to sign a puzzle with a black feather, is he?" Eric has heard about Kuroba (and, to be fair, Aoko and Akako) at length, including about various pranks and the puzzle-war. There hasn't been a full account of the puzzles' content before now, however. More than one have been visual puzzles, and others a matter of manipulating half a dozen physical or temporal variables to reach a designated outcome—neither of which Eric usually finds interesting enough to try to solve.

Of course, Eric's dearth of interest meant that when Kuroba turned out to favor those sorts of word-and-mind-games, there was a significant lack of familiarity to remedy. Its worth continuing that learning curve without the game, even if a book of classic Japanese riddles will lack the various twists Kuroba apparently enjoys adding.

"From how you've described Kid, I wouldn't put anything past him, little brother. So what's the answer?"

Grin out of habit, deceptively light. "I think I'll place it under our own game-rules. No answers given until a week without success."

"…Saguru?" Sometimes your best efforts are still insufficient, when the audience knows your voice as well as their own. The paper crinkles against a surface, and Eric's footfalls give warning of approach before a hand wraps around one forearm. "What's wrong?"

Breathe in, and exhale, long and slow. "I'm not going to reciprocate this time. Kuroba dyed my hair for St. Patrick's Day." Eric's sharp intake of breath confirms that no further explanation is needed. "I'd enjoy your help plotting a reprisal for the hair, but subtle enough he can't pin it on me. If he keeps looking closely enough… he's  _sharp_. Smarter than I'd originally thought, even already knowing it was more than what he pretends."

The need to move, to not be a sitting target, is too strong; gently shake off Eric's hand and step around him retrieve pyjamas and change while continuing on. Eric, thankfully, listens to the rest of the worries and response plans in the attentive way he's so good at, a vacuum of silence without interruption.

"Well…" Eric says at last, when the torrent of words subsides. Head to brush teeth and remove blue contacts worn for far too long already, trusting he'll follow behind. "It's surprising that it came up so quickly, but it should blow over soon enough. I guess if you want to pull out of the spotlight a little"—the tone implies that Eric doesn't entirely think that plan is a good idea, but won't say so aloud—"my only advice would be to not do it all at once, otherwise you're just going to make Kuroba more curious about the change in behaviour."

"Mmph." Toothpaste prevents an intelligible reply. Eric still understands the general feeling.

"Pick one, and start there. Maybe the obvious interest in Aoko, since you've mentioned that Kuroba does, at times, actually seem interested in her, or at least holds himself in the protective big brother role. Both of which require excruciating examination of all potential friends, allies, and significant others."

Eric adds with shameless amusement in response to a quirked eyebrow, "The only reason your social life is exempted right now is because Mother won't stand for a mid-term vacation on my part."

"Hrmn." Still toothpaste, but an additional eye-roll conveys fond exasperation well enough. Eric snickers, but allows time to process the advice in silence. It's good advice, including which direction to tackle first.

And it leaves the riddles, just for a little longer. That can be toned down by extending the length of time to respond with answer-and-new-riddle, as well.

"All right, then," acknowledge with a nod upon finishing with the contacts, as well. "I'll do that."

"Good." Eric keeps pace a half-step behind from the bathroom back to the bed, sitting on the edge as well. "…And you know I'll still transfer in a heartbeat, right?"

The spontaneous smile is warm and fond. "I know. Which is part of why you don't need to, especially still so soon, and when Aidan needs you."

Wanting Eric's company isn't a  _need,_  at least for the moment, and the craving for independence remains stronger. Maybe it was a close call, and there's still the chance to completely screw everything up in Japan… but it still  _hasn't_  happened, yet.

"Fine, fine… But it's still my job to look out for you, too." A hand is caught in Eric's—gently, Eric has always been good at knowing how much pressure is comfortable—and pulled to rest against Eric's face. Feel the smile, warm pressure against fingertips… "Just in case your memory's getting fuzzy."

"You…" Pause, as hypersensitive pads of skin catalog what  _should_  be present but isn't. "Did you  _shave_  tonight?"

Eric laughs, face free of the pale patches of stubble almost invisible to the naked eye but that rub gratingly to the touch. "Of course; I knew you were coming."

And one of the concerns Eric had initially raised about this whole scheme was how little physical contact was culturally acceptable in Japan, when the Harcourt nuclear family had adapted to match the shift in primary sense and went beyond what was typical even for close family in England.

Trust Eric to think of everything. Chuckle with a rueful headshake, and let fingers roam from forehead to chin, cataloguing  _warmth_  and  _pulse_ and  _alive_  with every angle of cheekbone, the infinitesimally slimmer nose blade, the steady thrum of blood-under-skin. Eric holds still through the explorations, eyes closed and with the same steady, pleased smile.

Smile back, hindbrain finally satisfied by the thorough reminder. "Thank you."

"What are older brothers for? Don't answer that," Eric adds quickly.

Some instructions are meant to be ignored. "Hm, teasing, blackmail, general terrorising…"

Eric cuffs a teasing rebuke lightly above the ear. "Traitor. Keep it up and I won't tell you what I scored for us to go to next weekend…"

"Next weekend? Wait…" Eyes widen, counterpoint to a disbelieving grin. "You didn't. Registration for it's been closed for months…"

" _I_ ," Eric gestures grandly, hand sweeping close enough to feel the displaced air, "am very sneaky. And I knew you would be back at least the weekend before Aidan's birthday. I've been planning the surprise since November, thank you."

"You can think that far ahead?" Duck this retaliatory swipe with a cheeky smirk.

"I should take Lonny instead of you," Eric threatens, but there's no bite to it.

"Lonny prefers talking to engines over people. He'd be bored to tears at an Abnormal Psychology Forum. If that  _is_  what you're talking about and not having me on…"

"Attendance for both days, all ours. I got the packets a week and a half ago."

To a normal person, the thought of spending two days listening to lectures on the ways the human mind can malfunction would not be a prospect worthy of quiet glee. As it is, the grin is stretched to its limits. "I owe you one, Niisan. Or possibly two or three."

"I'm sure you'll think of some way to even it up. You always do." Eric abruptly yawns. "Bother. Mother will kill me if I oversleep tomorrow after staying up late."

"So go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, mother." Eric dodges the hand aimed at the back of his head. "I'll catch up with you after school… just don't get into trouble without me."

"How could I let you miss out on the fun?"

Another chuckle, and a brief hug around the shoulders, and then Eric ghosts out of the room. Slide into bed, pulling Aidan along into the cocoon of warmth.

Relax.

This time, it's easy. Sleep comes without a thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As there has been no good place to add this in the story proper, Eric has an English first name as the eldest and heir to their maternal family's fortune. Saguru is expected to be his father's heir, and has the Japanese first name. (They do have opposite-culture middle names, and tend to switch which they use depending on the country.)


	8. Gold

_Friday, 27 March. 17:25:17_

"So as we can see, these theories of profiling the psychologically disturbed remain sound, and it is quite unfortunate that law enforcement does not take advantage of these principles to a greater extent…"

Don't walk out. It leaves a bad impression, and a face four decades younger than half the attendees is memorable. Focus on the time, solid comfort of hour-minute-second hands. Four minutes and thirty-one seconds until the conference ends for the day. Don't focus on how theory is all well and good, but the thing about sociopaths and serial killers is that a broken mind refuses to follow patterns of logic, even a logic of snapped gears and twisted springs—

Stop. Take a deep breath. Remember that is presenter is, objectively, an intelligent man, even if he has no concept of a printed handout to go with a contourless powerpoint presentation, or how to talk without going off on tangents every five minutes. The man simply hasn't had the opportunity to see theory put into practice. Or at very least, has dismissed any of the police studies of correlations between this method of profiling of any true specificity and its match to targets who were caught, let alone the ones who  _still got away..._

A hand squeezes a shoulder. Eric.

...Oops. Apparently the mental complaints progressed unnoticed to a sub-vocal mutter.

Flash an apologetic smile and subside. Eric's areas of expertise lie outside psychology, but he finds the subject interesting enough to be here and will listen to whatever half-rant this afternoon inspired after the lecture. It's quite feasible to behave until then. Another shoulder-squeeze accompanies a nearly inaudible snicker, and Eric's hand withdraws, followed by the unmistakable sound of doodling.

…Doodling with a ballpoint pen should not be recognisable by sound within three pen strokes. This is all Kuroba's fault. Though when you get right down to it, it's more amusing than anything else.

Polite applause reverberates; the session is over. As it begins to fade, stand and turn and open the door out in one smooth motion, an opportunity granted by sitting in the last row at the centre aisle's edge.  _Pulse_  in the atrium reveals other doors in the conference centre's hall opening, but the primary mob of attendees will bottleneck and jostle safely behind them, especially since most will opt to eat the overpriced dinners offered indoors rather than hurry into the sporadic rain showers outside.

Slip sunglasses on and turn up the coat collar as they step outside, but the sensation of faint drizzle on an upturned face is more pleasant than anything else.

A click and  _whoomph_  to the right, Eric opening an umbrella. "All right, how bad was he, really?"

"I need a pool table."

"Ouch," is the amused reply, and sight is unnecessary to know that Eric is grinning. "Sounds like fun. The Bronze Star on the corner hasn't kicked us out before, has it?"

"No, that was The Bronze Boar across town. Which was entirely your fault, you know; the man's friends wouldn't have objected so pointedly to him losing if your side bets hadn't nearly cleaned them all out in one go."

"They knew the risks, and I didn't hear you objecting at the time..." An arm slings over shoulders, the wide umbrella easily covering two people. "Also, getting sick the weekend before Aidan's party is forbidden."

Snicker faintly and let Eric lead the way around the pavement's puddles. "I was far too busy enjoying myself. I think I can survive two minutes of misting, but if you insist."

"I'm taking no chances. You sick will make Aidan sick from simple close proximity, and he's been looking forward to his first game of laser tag for months."

"All right, all right, I surrender."

"As you should."

"Of course, being now five steps from the door and thus under an awning renders your argument moot…"

"Prat." Eric's tone is fond as the umbrella vanishes, closing squeaks almost drowned out by the groan of the pub's heavy oak door.

"It takes one to know one. Order me something to go, will you? Just in case they take offense again."

"Aye, captain."

Snort and knock him lightly in the shoulder, then  _pulse_  and  _hold_ to navigate through the lunchtime crowd to the two pool tables in the back, sunglasses tucked safely back into their pocket. Eric didn't warn about the lighting, so it should be dim enough that half-lidded eyes can cover for the lack of focused gaze. A knot of working class dominate the small area, shooting the breeze together, rough and solid and proud of it. (Given a false nose, the right coat, and some grime, blending in would be easy, but what's the point of blending when all you want to do is thoroughly trounce someone?)

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Who of you lot is man enough for a proper opponent?"

"Piss off, pretty boy." Secondhand smoke fills the air; don't give him the satisfaction of a cough. A sardonic eyebrow should get a much better response, even if no one here likely knows how to define 'sardonic'.

"How original. Do you often hide behind complimentary insults to avoid a challenge?"

A derogatory laugh. "You're no challenge, kid. You ain't even old enough to drink."

"Buy, no; drink, yes, but only if it's worth imbibing. Certainly old enough to beat your pants off in a friendly game." Grin, only a little deviously. "How about if I lose, I buy you and your fine, upsta—er, slightly leaning friends another round of pints?"

Now is the time to smirk, the triumphant little expression reined back so many times in Japan. Allow an extra edge of smugness to leak through, because if baiting a crass idiot isn't the time to look like an insufferable little bastard, when is?

"And whadda  _you_  want, nancy-boy?" Hmm, apparently more crass than idiot. Not that it matters.

"If I win? You and your cohorts can pay out the equivalent of said round of drinks. Say, twenty pounds."

A contemptuous snort, and smoke fills the air again. "You're on. 'Ere, Tom, give us the table. We'll finish later."

The table is reset with clicks and thunks, plastic against plastic and cloth-on-wood. Encroaching sweat and a breath of moving air warn to pulse just in time to find a cue stick being held out by the other player.

"Better give us a good show after all that bloody cheek, lad."

Take the cue stick and smile, eyes curving further shut. "But of course. World Rules? And as the challenger, I'll yield the first turn."

Someone laughs. "You're gonna regret that. Mick's no pushover."

Another adds, "Ten quid says he beats the kid by five balls," sparking side-bets in earnest as another  _pulse_  and  _hold_  reveals the table in bone-white clarity and Mick lining up with the pyramid to take the break shot.

Footsteps approach from the direction of the bar. "Thirty pounds says my brother wins inside of two visits to the table."

Incredulous laughter and whistles resound, two or three voices taking Eric's bet, but then the cue ball moves and there's no concentration to spare for listening.  _Hold_ the table instead, dome of pressure light enough to not interfere with natural velocity, pressure enough to simultaneously track the trajectories of sixteen white balls careening around the table. Here is where eidetic memory and long, long hours of practice come into play, differentiating yellow from red and the eight ball's black by their original positions in the rack setup.

Mick's skills are not wholly exaggerated. The apex ball ( _red_ ) is potted straight off, and then another two follow it before his opponent finally misses.

Eight balls to pot in two turns. This  _is_  going to be  _fun._

* * *

_16:47:51._

It's a good thing Eric always makes bets with some leeway for human error. Five successful pockets into a run-out, a swerve shot clips the sixth ball a degree or two off angle. Rather than a clean pot, it catches on the pocket's knuckles, bouncing between a few times, before settling just on the edge as an incomplete shot.

Hold the pulse unmoving. Edge is  _not_  to interfere in any proper game, especially not with money riding on the outcome. Either the bet is won fairly, or not at all.

"Tough luck, kid," one of the betting men calls, with a few others adding more derogatory comments.

Smile, revealing nothing. Mick pots two more red balls but the third goes wide, earning a rough curse before access to the table is relinquished with poor grace.

"Last chance to keep from losing big, boyo."

"Why thank you, I'd somehow inexplicably lost track of the obvious."

"Why, I oughta—"

Wave a dismissive hand, answering, "After I divest you of your wages, please," and wonder idly if stark white is hiding shades of red or purple. Eric is fighting to not snicker, so perhaps.

The next two strokes go smoothly, but as the cue ball rolls to a stop for the final shot, whoops of laughter surround the table.

"Jig's up, you little bastard," Mick crows. "T'ain't no way you can make that shot."

The straight shot is for the right middle pocket, but the result of Mick's previous wide shot neatly blocks the mouth. Potting an opponent's ball, even incidental to a shot, is a foul, and fouling on the eight ball is an instant loss. Even for a swerve shot at the corner pocket, the cue ball's trajectory has a 98% chance of knocking the red ball in. And a kick shot will require a  _precise_  amount of force to sink the ball rather than causing a rebound out of the pocket, while still leaving the cue ball with enough power to touch the side of the table after.

…Oh, why not. "Would you care to prove your certainty with another bet, friend?"

Mick sputters amidst more snorts of disbelief from the audience. "I've got a tenner that says you can't!"

"Done!" Smile pleasantly and turn; exhale and line up the shot. Ignore the jeers about aim as the cue stick levels to shoot almost perpendicular to the eight ball. Ignore Eric snapping up the second round of side bets, voice cheerfully goading.

Ignore the memory of pulse-scattered balls on felt, fine control undeveloped to touch without movement; of simple shots missed over and over by unwieldy cue sticks and ruined stamina; of choking on game-winning shots and being forced to part with both pride and hard-earned money.

This shot is not easy, even with a few thousand hours of practice collected in the past six years. But it's not impossible, either, and by God will it be  _satisfying_  if it goes right _._

Breathe. Focus, gauging the movement necessary for a smooth stroke with the proper force.

Take the shot. Feel the ball move, like the current-ripple of a fish swimming close by, and watch with bated breath (Help, Kuroba's punning is contagious) as it bounces and makes contact with a clack and both balls roll apart and—

—success.

Eric whoops in triumph. "Pay up, gentlemen!"

One or two reach for their wallets, but Mick's expression twists in fury. "You're bloody barking mad if you think I'm paying you  _anything_ , you cheating little shite!"

A left hook punctuates the final word. Drop pulse automatically—too many people, too much chance of irreparable damage if multi-tasking triggers a flare—as muscle memory turns the instinctive dodge into an over-the-shoulder throw from a limited Judo repertoire, painstakingly learned through Eric's insistence, modeling, and role as a training dummy.

Blind aim, unfortunately, still needs work, and the muted crash of the body into the pool table is unmistakable. Particularly when the immediate spate of cursing says as much in three times as many words, ending with, "Git 'im!"

Booted feet to the left and behind. Dodge forward to where memory and sound place a gap in the spectators, face threatening to split with an adrenaline grin. Follow the vibrations of movement and Eric's sporadic Annoying Monologue™ (primary purpose to announce location, secondary advantage of pissing opponents off), and respond accordingly to keep him from being mobbed while hopefully avoiding any lucky shots in the meantime.

…When you get right down to it, half the rush of blindfighting (blindodging, really, but the other sounds better) is the chance of missing something vital and paying for it.

"Hey, watch it!" Not Eric. Wrong direction, deeper voice, and the accent sounds American. Judging by the subsequent crash and curse to the right, a mook in pursuit picked the wrong bystander to take a swing at on the way. (Fight psychology really is fascinating in its own right, even if it's not abnormal psych.)

A yell from in front, dodge the fist passing close enough to feel a breeze and use the momentum to sweep a leg around, foot hooking around the attacker's knee and pulling in one smooth motion until he crashes. More feet on the wood floor; duck to another free area, adrenaline and blood pounding, and grin again at the sounds of Eric and the helpful stranger taking out the remaining three fighters.

_Pulse._

Mick is the last to have gone down, shirt still held in Eric's fist. The others aren't all unconscious, but their expressions reveal second thoughts about getting back up. As for the stranger…

Well. The accent may be American, and he's a good few inches taller and broader than they are, but the facial features are unmistakably Japanese. Perhaps thirty-something, short hair, business casual, and he has a friendly smile. "Go picking bar fights often?"

Eric shifts, and another pulse reveals the rustle of paper to be his checking the state of Mick's wallet, grinning back. "How can you think that of us, sir? All we had in mind was a friendly game."

A snort. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

Finger-comb hair into a semblance of neatness. "Only when we need to blow off steam. It was either this or lose my temper at a conference speaker, and I'd rather be able to continue attending tomorrow for the ones who  _do_  know what they're talking about."

"Wait, Clarkson?" A laugh. "I felt the exact same way; someone needs to drag half these folks out of the theoretical and into the real world."

"And our friend's wallet has forty pounds, which isn't near what we're owed, but the staff is giving us unpleasant looks," Eric announces abruptly. "Can we buy you dinner to celebrate a kindred spirit and make up for the loss of your drink?"

Movement, probably to grab the coat draped over a chair back. "Sure, why not? I don't set a new record for 'fastest time kicked out of a bar' every day."

"Cheers," Eric replies. "Come on, then, there's a decent-looking café across the street."

Pulse as Eric leads the way to the door, and note a certain conspicuous absence.

"Eric, did you or did you not order food for us?"

"Of course I ordered, but—" the door opens, scents of rain and smog blowing inside, "—your game finished too quickly, and I don't think we'll be getting food or a refund from them any time soon."

Another pulse reveals the pub owner in the act of hanging up the phone, face scrunched in a scowl, while the various patrons' postures express a spectrum between having seen nothing and a willingness to play bouncer if the three of them choose to loiter.

"Right. After you, Mr…"

"Cade Maboroshi," is the answer as they duck outside.

_Pulse_  and  _hold_  and slip sunglasses back in place, eyes falling more comfortably closed for the moment while their new acquaintance continues, "But call me Cade or Dr. M, anything else makes me look for my dad."

"Doctor of Psychology?" Eric asks.

"Psychiatry, actually." A chuckle cuts off Eric's automatic apology. "It's an easy mistake, I know. I'm older than I look."

"I walk corrected. No wonder you took offense at Clarkson's spiel. Have you been in London long?"

Pause at the street corner, face turned between Cade and the street while waiting out the rush of cars and exhaust fumes.

"Nah, just visiting." A wry tone colors the reply. "I'm on sanity leave, but like a good little workaholic I'm keeping up in the field for fun."

Smile faintly. "Sanity leave should be mandatory for anyone in your field. If you'll forgive my curiosity, what do you do?"

"I'm a profiler for the Las Vegas PD. Don't tell my boss, but I spend a lot of time playing poker with the night shift while waiting for new information on a case to turn up."

Laugh with Eric as traffic finally changes direction and pedestrians start to cross the street, but before another question comes to mind Cade adds, "What's your story? Taking exception to an academic lecture isn't typical weekend entertainment for your age bracket."

"Oh, the human mind is a hobby—"

" _Obsession_ ," Eric coughs.

"—thank you, Eric—of mine. I also happen to do consulting detective work, and it always pays to know your full range of possibilities."

"Heh. That's for sure. Do you get a lot of cases?"

Don't bristle. The man sounds genuinely curious, not condescending. As it turns out, there's no need; Eric drops an arm lightly around both shoulders and boasts, "He's made the news at least a dozen times in London, and twice so far in Tokyo."

Cade whistles lowly. "Not bad. What sort of cases do you get?"

"Missing persons, threats, surveillance, embezzlement, theft… occasionally we stumble across a murder."

All but three of the England headlines are from murder cases, in fact. Considered that way, making the news seems less of a thing to take pride in… not compared to finding Jenny for Uncle Andrew when she'd been kidnapped four years ago. Recovering her safely had even been worth the rib-crushing hug of all the strength a sobbing eight-year-old could bring to bear… though it had been  _very_  tempting to maim her unsuspecting brother's  _idiotic_  supposed friends.

"Murders, at your age? That has got to suck."

Refocus on the present as Cade gets the café door. "You grow accustomed to it, really… One can adjust to anything."

Up to an including one to two cases a week squeezed between academic studies, outside reading, time with family, and physical and sensory exercises. House staff and extended family's gossip about anti-social tendencies be damned—with a schedule packed full as it is, who has time for boring 'socialisation'? Not to mention introversion is an incredibly common psychosocial trait in its own right, even if  _Eric_  is an extrovert.

"Doesn't keep it from sucking."

Allow a hair-ruffle from Eric before he follows Cade toward an empty table and replies, "You think it would be better if we didn't find them, and the criminal could get away? The Yard's told us more than once that if Saguru hadn't been there, the bastard would have had time to destroy the evidence and get off scot-free."

"Quite the compliment from the police, and more power to you for catching the murderers. I just hate to see kids run across corpses so young."

Calculate the possible fall of shadows as the sunglasses are safely tucked back away, and sit in the chair most likely to be out of direct light. The laminated placemat-menu is useless as anything more than a pretended focus for the eyes, but Eric considerately debates aloud a few mutually-preferred meal choices.

Eric quickly subsides to a more sub-vocal hum of consideration, making it possible to answer Cade. "I'm afraid that would have made no difference, really. Our first encounter wasn't a premeditated murder, but witnessing a hit-and-run when we were nine. The murder magnet didn't seem to kick in until we were thirteen."

After enough time had passed to re-acclimatise to the newly manifested edge, and to be willing to go out places again… Sometimes it almost feels like there could be a connection, but only on the days when the interruptions are particularly unwelcome.

"Mmm."

"But even unasked for it's… satisfying, to find a criminal through evidence and legwork and logic."

Like scratching a deep-seated mental itch. Impossible to explain properly, to someone who doesn't know the thrill of  _hunt_  and  _catch._ Mother says it's a family trait: why she and Great Aunt Cecilia are falconers, why half the family tree is in law enforcement or civil service of some branch or another… and why, every generation or two, a name is quietly scratched out and never mentioned again except to explain  _exactly_ why the Harcourt line works for a living despite being well off.

Cade grins. "I know that one. Part of why I'm taking a vacation rather than looking for a new job altogether."

Footsteps and jasmine perfume herald the waitress, who steps inside the range of held-pulse to stop by Cade's chair, treating them to a friendly smile and a list of the current specials. Order last, fingers drumming lacquered wood such that the chosen menu item—fish and chips, horribly stereotypical but why fight a good thing?—can't have been accidentally covered by an arm.

As the waitress retreats with the promise of food and drink on their way, Cade leans forward to rest elbows on the table. "So, here's a question. You started that fight—hell, even got a few good licks in, that was a textbook throw—but at the end, you stood back and let me and your brother finish it even though it was three on two. Why?"

Don't freeze. Of  _course_  a man in his profession is going to have noticed things most people are too preoccupied to process. Even the timing is admirable for its precise denial of offering excuses or changing the subject. The only way to answer is with some form of the truth.

"It's a bit of a dull story, that one," Eric starts, but from his tone even he recognises that Cade will not be easily snowed.

Pick up the narrative, "Simply put, the nerves in my hands," spread them slightly over the table, keep attention on hands and not the face, "are unnaturally sensitive to kinetic force. Gripping an object or, say, an arm that already expended its energy in a punch, is of no consequence. However, when it comes to taking the initiative with a grab or a punch, the vectors are against me, and I draw the line at enjoying a good fight when an open-hand strike leaves me aching for hours afterward."

"Don't forget swearing like a sailor."

"Very funny; I haven't done that since my first and last closed-fist strike to a punching bag." Words aside, the banter is friendly, intended to be distracting; if Eric were to have other designs, he would have mentioned the scream that had preceded turning the air blue.

There are good reasons why, on days where it's too wet to run frustration out, riding the edge (or reality) of a fight is a method of first resort rather than last.

Cade leans over, trying for a better look. "Huh. Has a doc been able to tell you why?" Close proximity allows  _pulse_  to catch the faint swell of cornea over lens, tracking gaze from hands to when Cade glances up with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, not my field of medical expertise, just curiosity."

Flex the fingers, eyes half-focused on their movement. Eric says the skin is close enough in shade and texture again as to be nearly indistinguishable unless someone knows to look for a difference.

"No one gets far in the mental health field without an abundance of curiosity. But to answer your question, no. They finally settled on idiopathic etiology, and pain medications… don't help." Not as intended, at any rate. Cade shouldn't have heard the brief hesitation, but best to move on. "So, since you and Eric had things so well in hand, I decided not to interfere."

"It keeps me in good shape for rugby, so I can't complain," Eric chimes in.

"Rugby? No wonder your brother keeps up on abnormal psych, he's got a crazy one in the family."

"Hey, just because your country is a bunch of pansies when it comes to real sports is no reason to call us nutters."

"No, he's right. You  _are_  nutters."

"You wound me, little brother."

"They wound you; I merely state the obvious."

"At least I'm not as bad as your thief." Perfect. Kid makes for an excellent distraction.

"True. You haven't stolen any giant clock hands recently." The heist had been enjoyable to listen to in the company of family, with the others taking turns filling in the details left out by the TV newscaster commentary. Oddly enough, learning that another teenage detective had shown up to chase—and nearly catch—Kid had incited an uncharacteristic feeling of annoyance. Kid is no one else's thief to chase, puzzle to solve, gateway to a normal life.

…Well, relatively normal. Either way, no one else had better catch him first.

"Who's this, then?"

"An international thief who recently reappeared in Japan after an eight year hiatus. Wears a white suit, cape and top hat, sends the police advance notice of what he plans to steal and when, and manages to get away with it by being a clever bastard and a master of disguise. I've chased him twice so far, and can attest that he has the luck of the devil as well." And the luck of an edge; or perhaps they're the same thing.

Cade's eyes narrow, intrigued. "All white?"

"Except for a red tie and blue shirt and hatband."

"And blue socks," Eric adds with a grin.

"Huh. That's still a lot of white." And while Western culture associates white with innocence and purity, Japan associates white with death and burial shrouds.

"They call him a phantom thief for a reason, I suspect. He plays the part of a ghost quite well." Even if his elbow to the ribs is more than solid enough. It's difficult to say yet whether the white is intended to be symbolic, or merely flashy, as another tool of misdirection.

"Kaitou?" The accent is flawless; American he may be, but he's definitely bilingual. Interesting.

"Yes, Kaitou Kid is the colloquialism granted by police and his fans. Far easier to report a sighting with that name than "International Thief 1-4-1-2."

Cade chuckles. "He has fans? Definitely a 'kaitou', then."

"Mmm, yes. He's not a perfect thief—he doesn't always get his quarry, even if he remains uncaught—but he's a master entertainer."

"Does he have a pattern?"

"Besides the absurd? He previously targeted gems to the exclusion of all else, but since his revival the focus has turned to museum pieces and other oddities. A home run baseball and a jeweled pool cue stick come to mind." Rather like a newly minted protégé still finding his feet… Though Nakamori would bite off several heads if he heard any such suggestions.

"He sounds like fun."

"Yes… It's refreshing to chase a criminal who invites people to play a relatively harmless game with him, rather than the alternatives."

"I'll bet. You have relatives in the Tokyo force?" A fair question; private detectives have their place, but an active police investigation is hardly going to welcome a minor of gaijin cultural background without some influence. Much as that knowledge might chafe.

"Mmm, our father." No need to advertise father's exact position. Cade's familiarity with Japan means he likely  _would_  recognise what position holds the title of Superintendent General of the Tokyo MPD, and adaptation to the implicit culture there means even saying it at all sounds too much like boasting.

"Well, if you ever meet Senjirou Maboroshi from fraud, tell him his nephew says hi."

"I might, in point of fact… personnel for Kid heists tends to be primarily drawn from Division Two, so far as I can tell."

"Makes sense, with their jurisdiction over theft. Departments usually don't like to share much." A chuckle. "I could tell you some stories from Las Vegas…"

"Please do; I'm not as familiar with American law enforcement as I'd like to be."

"I make no promises of being educational, but they tell me that I'm at least entertaining."

As it turns out, he's both. The murder case that included a tarantula getting loose in the crime lab (and another, more vaguely referenced incident involving a rubber hose, a stick insect, and tuning fork) even turns out to have a fraud aspect. Eric takes the association as prime opportunity to regale Cade with the first criminal case solved together—the result of Eric's challenge to review the summer house's bookkeeping after four months of hearing mother lament the increasing costs of upkeep. The amount of sneaking was hardly secret agent level, though listening to Eric you'd hardly know the difference. But all the relevant accounting materials  _was_ collected under both mother and Mr. Grodin's nose, until there was enough evidence to prove the man had been skimming for nearly five years and only recently become too greedy for his own good.

The story prompts another tale in return, and somehow over the arrival of food the conversation transitions into abnormal psych and prevalent modern theories, with the occasional anecdote slipping in here and there.  _Pulse_  holds the small bubble of company below conscious thought, and it's only when the pressure of a building headache becomes noticeable does the realisation of time having passed register.

Read the time, watch face under fingertips, and swear softly. "Eric, we have twenty-two minutes and nineteen seconds to get home."

"What?" Eric's arm shifts, angling wristwatch to visibility. "Bugger, that was a fast three and a half hours."

"Time flies when you're having fun. Curfew?"

"Of sorts. We promised our little brother we'd be home before his bedtime. So we really must go, but it's been a pleasure talking with you…"

"You too. Tell you what, tomorrow I'll track you down and we can snark at the lecturers."

Smirk, as Eric grins and takes care of the check. "Sounds perfect."

Pull out a business card and slide it across the table—enough of Cade's mannerisms are American that he shouldn't consider the informal presentation rude. "Here, in case our appearance isn't distinctive enough to find us in the morning."

"No fear of that." He does have a  _meishi_  case, soft leather-texture enclosing hollowed-out wood, and the card disappears into its depths not so far deep into the stack as to appear insulting, nor so shallow as to seem an attempt at flattery rather than honest respect. Two identical cards appear from a different pocket of the case, one to reciprocate and one for Eric. Force the eyes to approximate focus on the familiar lines of occupational and contact information, both English and Japanese sides, then store in the front shirt pocket. Ironically, the proper case for it is safely in Japan, holding the cards of the handful of clients and contacts collected since February.

"Thank you. We'll look forward to tomorrow."

Cade grins as he stands, donning coat in preparation to brave the elements outside. "As the man said, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. See you then."

Follow Eric outside and hail a cab, cracking the window just enough to let air in without much noticeable rain. Even racing the clock— _eighteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds_ —to get home in time, and the headache deciding to make a full appearance, it's only a few minutes before a contented hum slips out to properly express how satisfying today was.

Cloth shifts on leather, Eric's scent strengthening as he leans in closer. "Hah, that  _is_ the Holmes theme. Good. I'm glad today was a success."

"Yes. Yes, it was." An unbiased mind who knows psychology inside and out to discuss Kid theories with, and after tomorrow the conversation can continue via email, free from concern of hiding edge and eyes from Cade's proven powers of observation.

Life is very good indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cade was created by Ellen Brand and is borrowed with permission. Saguru's pool game in the pub was British-style billiards, also known as blackpool.
> 
> _Meishi_ are Japanese business cards, the giving and receiving of which are a matter of formal etiquette and dignity. How you treat the card is indicative of how you perceive the giver. To store one in a wallet or back pocket is insulting, as it may damage, discolor, etc the card.


	9. Clear

_Tuesday, 31 March. 18:23:13._

"One more, please?"

Aidan's upturned, pleading face is nearly impossible to resist. Tilt the head toward Eric, in what would be an older brother exchange of glances between anyone else. (There are a wealth of gestures manageable without eye contact, by virtue of other body language.) Eric's expression holds an indulgent smile, one easily matched.

"One more, and then we should go home."

"Yeah!" It should not be possible to glomp two brothers at once when one arm is full of laser gun, but somehow Aidan manages it.

Eric grins. "Let's go add to our winning streak."

Laser tag isn't the easiest game to play without a chance to calibrate the aim of light-based ammunition, but the ability to sense what's around blind corners more than makes up for it. Edge would stay off-limits if Eric were the only game partner, but the whole point of today is for Aidan to have fun. With Eric as informed point man and no chance of surprise ambush, Aidan is free to point and shoot however he likes at the vict—opponents, and celebrate victory at the end.

Return triumphant, met with a supper of Aidan's favorite foods, as Mother wisely arranged for Aidan's cake to be consumed  _before_  he could run off the ensuing sugar rush rather than after. (Aidan's friend Galen, who had come over for the lunch, presents, and cake part of the day, had been loosed back on his parents directly after sugar consumption, which had surely been much appreciated.)

Aidan gives a glowing report of the afternoon, and even grandmother's disapproval of war games can't prevent her from smiling at his good cheer. The rest of the evening is spent breaking in Aidan's new action figures until he starts to yawn.

Eric chuckles, and edge captures his hand moving to ruffle Aidan's hair. "Time for bed, gremlin."

"I'm not—" Aidan's protest is cut off by another yawn. "—tired."

Waggle the figure held in hand in a parody of a wave goodbye. "We'll all still be here in the morning."

"Yeah, but..."

"No buts, Aidan."

Aidan pouts, and dawdles through cleaning up and preparing for bed, but eventually he gets tucked away for the night. In the hall outside Aidan's room, Eric turns in a soft rustle of jeans and t-shirt. "Gym, or a game? Unless you picked up another case already..."

There is a Kid heist tonight, but the target belongs to the Suzuki business group and the news isn't being allowed anywhere on-site. Murakami-keiji can relay the details of Kid's escape in the morning—a successful escape is highly likely, whether or not the thief gets away with his target. Even if Kudou Shin'ichi shows up again.

Smile in deserved satisfaction. "The fraud consultation I picked up after Madam Eastley's cousin was arrested is already resolved as well. I think laser tag was enough for one day, so let's go with chess. We can put the rugger match on—that was this afternoon, wasn't it?"

Eric's hair ruffles carries an unspoken, grateful sort of glee, proving the guess right. Eric's devotion to watching rugby nearly equals his enthusiasm for playing the sport himself, but he tries to not bore those who only have the highlight commentary to listen to. Multitasking makes for a good compromise, and also gives Eric something to blame when he loses and a reason to gloat when he wins. It's fine either way; playing isn't to keep score.

Mother is still at her desk in the sitting room where she'd bid Aidan goodnight, her fingers clicking industriously on a computer keyboard. Edge catches the brilliant smile she always offers company, no matter how short or long or a time its been, and she pauses her work to provide an encompassing double-hug.

"Bless you both for handling Aidan tonight."

Lean in and absorb the warmth, memorising afresh the scent of lavender she's been favouring lately. "Of course, Mother."

Eric adds, with an audible grin, "We accept cash, cheque, or credit card. Or putting the game on."

Mother's laugh fills the room. "Go on, then. I'm about caught up on the accounts anyway."

The telly is on the opposite side of the sitting room, mounted above the fireplace with a sofa and two overstuffed chairs arranged around a cherry wood coffee table. In ten years, the furniture has never been rearranged, only occasionally replaced, and edge is unnecessary to find the back of the sofa and skirt the edges to sit. The sofa dips slightly with Eric's added weight, and beneath the sudden noise of the telly is the click of the chessboard and box of pieces being set on the coffee table. Another click as the box of pieces open and the sofa cushions shift again to Eric leaning back.

"Go on, then. Unless you're too tired from earlier..."

Grin at the challenge-offer. "I'm never too tired for this."

Edge  _holds_  the pieces in a jumble of false white, all identical except for a dot of purportedly clear nail polish on the top of the ones memory says are made of equally clear glass, while the unmarked ones are frosted. (The frosted texture can be detected with concentration, now, but was too subtle when the set began being used.) With a bit of extra concentration, the hold is strong enough to move the pieces from box to board in a rush of mid-air organization that clicks each into their place with the appearance of sixteen invisible hands moving in coordination.

Eric chuckles from the blackness outside of the carefully contained limits of edge at this strength. The pressure wouldn't precisely hurt him, but being pushed even lightly can hardly be called pleasant. "It's a good thing I know you won't cheat."

Sniff disdain at the very idea. "I hardly need to cheat to beat you."

"We'll see about that." The clear glass is on Eric's side of the board, and he starts the game with king's knight to f3.

Counter with king's knight to f6, though this time moved by hand rather than by edge. "With pleasure."

* * *

_22:46:37._

The rugby match is over and the chessboard well-developed into endgame before conversation creeps back into the pauses between moves and concentration. Eric moves his remaining knight to threaten queen's bishop. "This reminds me, did you decide on a club? I know you'd been thinking about joining the chess one, or track and field..."

"Mmm, I decided against those. Both of them travel for matches, and I need more freedom in my schedule to manage cases. Unless there's suddenly a detective club when the school year starts, I'd been planning on drama club." Move the bishop, but only to block effective movement of Eric's queen.

"Oho, my brother, the thespian. Couldn't you make a detective club yourself, though, if you wanted?"

"If I wanted, yes, but if I make it myself I'll likely be the head, and I've no desire to have to coordinate club meetings or activities on top of my own."

"You're already busy enough," Eric agrees, advancing a pawn to one space away from the back row's promotion. "It's a shock you have time to sleep."

The tone is gentle, teasing, and Eric doesn't suggest giving up on a club altogether. After-school activities are the best chance to make connections outside of class 2-B, and it's important to have a recreational pursuit. Detective work isn't a hobby to pursue at leisure, it's a calling you don't get to walk away from even if you wish to.

Thankfully, at this point, there's no such desire.

"So," Eric continues cheerfully, and realize the rumination distracted entirely from making a response. "Are you hoping for a role, or to be crew?"

"It depends on the play and the needs of the club, really. I wouldn't exactly fit the look of a historical piece." Another set of moves; sacrifice a rook to capture Eric's knight and put his king in check.

"Well, if you don't dye your hair, not unless there's a Dutch trader, a supernatural creature in human guise, or it's set after Perry's Black Ships."

"I like my hair as it is, thank you." People distracted that way aren't trying to make eye contact, and it feels like a way to bring some of England to Japan. "The second might be interesting. I make a good villain or Chaotic Neutral being, don't you think?"

Pitch an evil laugh, honed by years of young and foolish mischief, and more recent months of trading off with Eric for the role of villain to be defeated by Aidan's action figures. It provides fitting counterpoint to putting Eric's king in checkmate.

"Of course." Eric lightly drums his fingers on the table, sighs, and tips his king over with a faint  _clack._  "The good guys lose today."

Grin without thinking, amused and triumphant. "I promise to be a benevolent Evil Dictator."

"Oh,  _do_  you?" Edge catches Eric shifting closer just before getting caught in a (mostly) gentle headlock and noogie, the scents of sweat and cologne sharpening with the movement. "Do you provide high tea before starting the floggings until morale improves?"

Fight back, but not too hard, mindful of the game beside the impromptu wrestle, though it's hard to protest, grapple, and laugh simultaneously. "High tea—and a massage—do you take me for—a man of no class?"

"None at all, you blighter!"

The fight rather devolves from there, while mother laughs in the background, until the best option is to finally surrender, going limp. "All right! No dictatorships today, and when I do conquer the world you can be my right-hand minion."

Eric sniffs, only partially loosening his superior hold. "Minion? I  _might_  settle for Grand Vizier."

"Wrong form of government, but why not? It'll still just be a title."

"Until I depose you."

"You can try."

Eric ruffles his hair. "We'll see. First you have to conquer the criminal underworld, right?"

"Today the underworld, tomorrow the surface."

"Don't let Aidan hear you say that, or we'll have Mole Man against the Fantastic Four next time."

Smile, content. "I can live with that."


	10. Green

_Wednesday, 1 April. 06:03:24._

The downside of vacations is they never last long enough. The morning would be the same routine of preparing for the day and eating breakfast together as a family, except for that when Aidan and Eric typically leave for school, instead they join Mother and Grandmother in playing escort to the airport. By staying through the end of Aidan's birthday, there's no chance to attend the opening ceremonies at Ekoda High, but some things are worth it.

The drive passes too quickly and the farewells are too short. Aidan hugs almost painfully tight, but the sentiment is returned. Match the hug as tightly as nerves and skin can stand. Eric and Mother and Grandmother are gentler, and Grandmother adds an affectionate pet along the nape.

"Don't get into trouble over there, and stay safe."

"I'll do my utmost," is the only possible promise. Kid may be the primary target, but there's always the chance of other cases.

Time ticks inexorably on, and the plane must be boarded before it leaves. The last goodbyes help lighten the walk to the assigned seat and through takeoff. Knowing that Eric snuck a small stockpile of handkerchiefs in a sealed plastic bag into the luggage also helps. Even the smell of home won't be the same as being there, but the world turns on.

It's impossible to sleep through the start of the flight—it's barely been a few hours since waking. Instead, read Japanese history and wish for  _The Tale of Genji_  to take its stead. Even if the main character is more despicable than not, at least it's more entertaining and there's a psychological side to the presentation. Textbooks are perhaps the worst possible way to present information without the life siphoned out.

When the textbook becomes unbearable, another audiobook and writing a reply riddle for Kuroba fill the time off and on for the rest of the flight's first half. Fortunately, no fellow passengers are seated nearby, as chatting with a stranger for no reason besides proximity is approximately as palatable as three-day-old natto. Getting through a 36-hour day without collapsing will be quite enough of a challenge on its own.

Amusements finally exhausted and well aware of the relative time, a pill and attempting to nap cover the last few hours before the plane descends. Thanks to time zones, the plane lands with just enough leeway to rush through customs and home to change. Baaya pulls the car up in front of school just as the first period bell begins to ring on  _2 April, 7:59:4_ 3\. (The administration is forgiven for not keeping their clocks quite so accurate as they could be.)

Slide the classroom door open before the last chime fades away, and a pulse catches most of the class turning to look at the sound.

"Hakuba-kun! You're back!" Aoko's delighted smile is impossible to not return in kind, though memory reminds at the last second to not be so vulgar as to show any teeth in the process.

"Safe and sound. Good morning, Aoko-kun, everyone. My apologies for disrupting." Slip between the desks with care to the last empty seat, ignoring Kuroba for the moment. A specific greeting is counter to instilling distance. Given what happened the last holiday, it's probably for the best that the first of April passed on a plane rather than in Kuroba's proximity.

With any luck, the story of what occurred will come up during lunch.

* * *

_Wednesday, 2 April. 12:08:54._

The story is beyond anything imagination could provide. Somehow, defying all sense, Kuroba managed to get his hands on a  _Riddler_ costume—though the other students didn't catch the reference. They describe it as a dark green bowler hat, a cane with a funny handle, and a dark green eyemask. The identification is tentative until Keiko mentions, as she pulls up what's supposed to be a picture on her phone, that about a dozen people had bright orange hair by the end of the day.

"Here it is, see?"

Don't wince. "The cane... the handle was a bit like a question mark, was it not?"

Aoko and the others lean towards the screen through a gently held  _pulse._  "You know, I think you're right... But why?"

Kuroba not only likes American holidays, he apparently is either a fan of comic books or Jim Carrey. Or both.

Given the blending of canons, the safest bet is probably both.

"An American cartoon villain called the Riddler has that as part of his trademark costume. He enjoys playing tricks on people and making games and... setting riddles for people to solve." The answer to Kuroba's riddle is still hidden between pages on the Warring States era. Don't think about it; Kuroba's not even present for lunch this time, likely off doing some last minute prep with his clubmates for the club fair later. "The Riddler also has orange hair, which would explain the choice of dye for the day."

"Ohhh," comes the chorus of understanding.

"Kaito  _would_  enjoy being the villain," Aoko states with a faint pout. "Just like he likes Kid."

Keiko protests, "Hey! Kid isn't a villain, he's misunderstood."

Ah, the advantages of a charming personality. Remind, mildly: "He still breaks the law."

"Right! And that makes him a bad guy, right, Hakuba-kun?"

...Well. "The law does make some exception for motive and mitigating circumstances, Aoko-kun, though I doubt Kid-kun would fall in that category."

But maybe he does. That driving factor is never something to not want to know.

How can Kid expect a  _deduction_  regarding something so privately internal no one can know the truth with certainty except the person who acted?

The question remains, haunting, even through the rest of classes and the whirlwind of Club Fair. It doesn't rest until going to the Police Headquarters and completing the mind-numbing red tape required to officially join the Task Force drowns out all other concerns.

* * *

_16:19:23._

"Okay, that's the last of paperwork for the long-term visitor's badge. Here's your non-disclosure agreement, and the paperwork for the background check to be a probationary member of the Kaitou Kid task force." Papers rustle as they settle on the desk.

Calm. Be less than calm, and any modicum of respect already achieved will vanish in an instant. "I just filled out the paperwork for a background check as part of the the visitor's badge."

"I know." Murakami-keiji's voice, a pleasant tenor, is sympathetic. "The background check for the task force goes through an additional department, and no, none of them talk to each other."

"Of course they don't." Pinch the nose bridge against a migraine and hope it works.

"Bureaucracy at it's finest," Murakami-keiji agrees with false cheer. "But I swear, this is the last of it except for fingerprinting and taking the photo for the badge."

"Thank God," slips out in English unthinkingly. Switch to Japanese to add, "At this rate, all that would disbar me from being an officer is sitting the exam."

"You still have two years of high school to go, Hakuba-kun."

Pop joints and stretch muscles that have been hunched over a desk filling out forms in triplicate for far too long already. "I did say 'At this rate', did I not?"

Murakami-keiji chuckles. "I'm sure we'll manage to release you before dinner."

"I certainly hope so. I promised I would be home for it." Father and Grandfather promised, too—the first chance for a meal together since returning, to catch each other up on the other side of the world.

"Well, the sooner you finish, the sooner we can get you home."

"Thank you. I'm sure you have other concerns than guiding me through this paperwork nightmare, anyway."

Edge catches Murakami-keiji's congenial shrug. "I like your style. Don't mention I said this, but maybe some new perspective will give us an edge on Kid. You've certainly gotten close, and even Kudou-kun messed up his plans a little while ago at the clock tower."

Interest slows the movement of pen across paper. "Is Kudou-kun at headquarters today? I'd hoped to run across him sometime..." There are too few teenage private detectives in the world to pass up the chance to commiserate. Besides, Kudou is supposedly a  _Holmes fan_ , to boot.

"No, sorry... He hasn't been around all week, that I've heard, which might be a new record. I'd have to check with Yumi-san in traffic, she's the bookie—crap. Don't tell anyone I said  _that_ , either, okay?"

Ignore the disappointed pang and smile, teeth hidden politely but with definite amusement. "My lips are sealed." Pause, and take a deep breath. Now  _is_  the best time to ask, and of all the officers on the task force, Murakami-keiji is perhaps the most sympathetic to his position already. "Though there is something you could do for me, as a favor in return."

"Yeah?" Murakami-keiji's voice is understandably tinged with wariness. "What is it?"

Focus on the paper, let the pen continue to scribble more redundant information as distraction. "I... if I could have your promise of not repeating this, either?" To gain more trust, offer trust in return, and perhaps a hook for curiosity.

"Of course!" Murakami-keiji shifts, nearly leaning over the desk, and paranoid habit drops edge completely to be there's no pressure-resistance for him to encounter.

Hold the pen steady, eyes carefully lowered in the direction of the paper, and speak quietly to be sure Murakami-keiji  _is_  the only one who hears despite the empty surrounding desks. "I have... I'm colorblind. Utterly. I was hoping I might be able to use your eyes on occasion, should color become a relevant concern."

"No kidding? I would never have figured you for something like that." The shift of fabric and hint of air indicates that Murakami-keiji has likely leaned forward further in curiosity. Don't react. "No color at all? How's that possible?"

"Accidents and bad luck conspire." The tone is intentionally flat, and Murakami-keiji is bright enough to take a hint.

"Right. Well, your secret is safe with me, I promise."

Smile again, with the sharp certainty that puts people on edge. "As you're the only one on the force I've told, I'll certainly be able to tell if you do better with this than Yumi-keiji's side work."

Murakami-keiji chuckles, if a bit nervously. "I will, don't worry."

"I trust your discretion for truly important matters." There's nothing left to say, really, so turn back to the paperwork and carefully bring edge back to bear, ready to drop should Murakami-keiji show any signs of awareness. There truly isn't that much left, and soon all that remains is a last signature-seal stamp. (The seal had been a welcome gift from grandfather, white marble with a line carving on all four sides of the horse rampant that has been the symbol of the family line for decades. It's easy to appreciate the seamless integration of aesthetic form and practical function.)

Finish the stamp, and lean back in the chair with a sigh. "That's the last, I hope."

Papers rustle again as Murakami-keiji hums under his breath and checks that everything is properly complete. "Yep! You're free to go. See you on the nineteenth, if you'll be there."

Making it on the  _Queen Selizabeth_ cruise ship for another rematch is very tempting. However... "Are the rumors about Suzuki Sonoko true?"

Murakami-keiji laughs. "Boy crazy and effusive? As far as I can tell, yes, but she's so obsessed with Kid right now she probably wouldn't care if the guests were all rich and handsome college students instead of corporation CEOs."

Excellent. "I'll be there, if a bit more low profile than usual." An invitation could potentially be procured through grandfather—grandfather most likely has already received a request of attendance—but it's far more satisfying to have access via the position in the task force.

"Not interested in catching her attention?" There's a definite grin in Murakami-keiji's voice.

"I have no desire to be anyone's obsession."

"Smart of you. Well, take care until then, and do your best with the new school term."

A smile spreads automatically at the well-wishing. "Thank you; I'm looking forward to it."

Despite everything unresolved with Kuroba, it's the complete truth.


	11. Pearlescent (Part 1)

_Thursday, 3 April. 16:15:23._

How does Kuroba get in the middle of everything?

Moreover, how did Kuroba's involvement in drama club go unnoticed?

The decision to join  _had_  admittedly been last minute... and yesterday club president Kitiyama had been too excited about what a fluently English-speaking member could contribute to expanding the club repertoire to talk about other members. There had been a picture frame on the fair table, but trying to ask specifically about the full club roster simply hadn't seemed important at the time.

Now, with Kuroba lounging in the chair adjacent, a faint curve on his lips that could be amusement but might be mockery, the gods of irony  _must_ be laughing.

"Are you stalking me?" Kuroba quips.

"The world does not, in point of fact, revolve around you, Kuroba-kun. Kindly hold any narcissistic tendencies in check."

Kuroba snickers and holds the back of his hand against his forehead, face upturned in the throes of scenery-chewing drama. "No! Such things cannot be! The moon, the stars and the sun all shine bright to spotlight my every move; how can you deny them the purpose of their existence?"

To be so clearly not taking himself seriously now… maybe he was only amused a few moments ago, after all. Amused and offering an invitation to join in on the fun? "The sun and stars I might grant you," the good-natured retort rises easily, "but I think you'll agree that the moon has been reserved for Kaitou Kid."

After appearing to consider this a moment, Kuroba grins. "Reserved? Nah. But I loan it out to him to give him the right amount of flair at heists."

The rest of the club joins in with laughter before Kitiyama claps his hands for order. "Well, I'm glad you and Kuroba-kun can get along, as you'll be seeing plenty of each other around show time—Kuroba-kun is in charge of makeup, though the sports clubs tend to try to steal him away from us the rest of the year. I spent last night discussing with Vice President Shindou our options for the number of members we have, and we've decided on  _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_  for the Summer Festival. Hakuba-kun will surely be on stage with us for that, won't you?"

Dear Holmes, not a blatant show of favouritism here at school, please, there are already plenty of rumours of nepotism—grumbled supposedly out of earshot—running rife in the Task Force. The former might not sting so much if the latter did not have at least a grain of truth to it.

"There must be auditions, surely?"

Kitiyama airily dismisses, "Oh, of course, but you have such presence, and familiarity with the original language. You would make an excellent Hamlet, unless you preferred to be one of the leads?"

"Oi," Kuroba interjects, amusement vanished entirely from his tone, "don't go offering anything without even knowing if he can learn a line or project worth a damn."

Kuroba is  _agreeing_  right now, such questioning of merit should not raise any defensive hackles, but somehow it does regardless. Stand and inhale, edge dropping as words long since memorised with eidetic recall rise to mind. "Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou com'st in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee…"

The beauty of monologue is that no one expects you to be looking anywhere specific, simply the middle distance of supposedly profound thought, even to the very end. It's a pity they probably don't know the monologue is actually Hamlet, since translating a memorised speech on the fly does not usually go well, and doubly so when dealing with Shakespeare. There's no helping it, though; there hasn't been enough time to revert from English as the language of default, and the Bard is rather vital to proving the point regardless. Still. If any of them are familiar enough to  _want_  to perform  _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_ , the sound of Shakespearean dialogue should be recognisable even across languages.

"...Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?" Wind to a close, flourish, bow—and smirk in Kuroba's general direction as not only the president applauds.

"Was that to your satisfaction, Kuroba-kun?"

Kuroba has the audacity to sound pleased. "They'll probably have to work on your blocking and some mannerisms, but at least you can project and memorise. You acted before?"

 _Every day._  "Oh, nothing like a club or a play, but I've done impersonations to varying degrees on investigations and such."

"Well, you'll do, probably. With a bit of work. Right, prez?"

"Oh, yes,  _certainly_ ," Kitiyama manages, then appears to remember that there are other new club members as well. "All right, who wants to audition and who wants to be stage tech? Auditions are with me and techs are with Shindou-kun. Oh, and Kuroba-kun," he adds as an afterthought, "since we don't know yet if you'll have any assistants, go ask Nakamori-kun if Handicrafts Club will help us with costuming again. Take Hakuba-kun; If they agree, we can loan him periodically to check it for accuracy."

The prospect of an excuse to see Aoko during clubs silences any protest before it can form.

"In monochrome?" Shindou's voice is familiar only from having met at the club fair; the vice president is a third year from class 2-C. Don't bristle. Bristling looks like there's something to hide.

"I would be happy to lend my experiences for the good of the club." A fey mood from the comment, or possibly just the memory of Kuroba's smirk, compels adding, "I also possess a copy of the movie version, if you wished to watch it for inspiration."

Kitiyama laughs. "That saves me from spending loads of time and money to get it any other way, for next week. Can you bring it Wednesday? We should be done with auditions and dividing up the tech departments by then."

"Certainly, provided I don't acquire an urgent case before then."

"If you don't plan to take club seriously, don't bother joining," Shindou growls from across the room.

Calm. "I have every intention of commitment. I will, however, prioritise the potential life or livelihood of another person over my own social development—unless, of course, that's a problem?"

Shindou makes a gruff, non-committal noise. Kitiyama brightly interjects, "Right, time to start. If you already have a job from our pre-fair meeting, work on it; if you're unassigned, stick with me or Shindou-kun."

Clothes shift and shoes trot across flooring, a susurrus of voices rising and falling as the two-dozen-odd members divide themselves up throughout the room. A breath of air movement and the smell of chocolate to the left denotes Kuroba's position. "Let's go, Hamlet-ouji."

"Only if you don't call me that unless I'm in character on stage."

Edge catches the tail end of Kuroba's face morphing into smiling innocence. "You mean you weren't?"

...He means the play.  _Just_  the play. "Some of us are better at differentiating between reality and not." Follow as he turns to walk, safely behind to avoid eye contact.

"Dull," Kuroba pronounces, with such familiar inflection that it takes a moment to remember he's not deliberately impersonating the new Sherlock Holmes. Probably.

"So why aren't you on stage yourself? You seem to care about quality—or do you prefer real life and street theater to the confines of a stage?" Kuroba's love of the spotlight in general has been apparent from the first mop-chase, but…

Edge contours a grin that would be at home on a shark. "Last year's club president didn't feel I play well with others. Can't think why."

Even without seeing the grin, Kuroba's tone alone would have been sufficient evidence. "How badly did you prank him?"

Kuroba snickers with pride. "He miiiight have spent a week covered in glitter after proposing a play with western vampires in it."

An involuntary snort escapes at the mental image. "But of course you weren't kicked out."

"Everybody  _else_  voted me into makeup when I showed up on the fifth day as him-sans-glitter, and nearly convinced the club to do an adaptation of  _Sherlock Holmes Arrives Too Late_  before he made it out of the broom closet and to the club room."

Kuroba clearly expects a response, but the  _absurdity_  of it all… best to check with Aoko or Keiko for confirmation before swallowing that story as truth. Especially if he was able to pass so convincingly, even presuming a superficial resemblance to start with. "I am entirely unsurprised by your devotion to Arsene Lupin."

Kuroba cheerfully responds, "If I weren't so magnanimous we'd be natural enemies."

Is the tone almost  _too_  cheerful? It's so difficult to tell, with him… perhaps not. "Enemies is such a strong word. Rivals? Acquaintances with uncommon causes?"

Kuroba pauses in front of the door with a small engraved plaque designating the Handicrafts club. "...Rivals is easier to say. But it's a good thing I'm so magnanimous it doesn't matter, ne?"

He barges into the club room with a new display of near-obnoxious good cheer before there's a chance to answer.


	12. Pearlescent (Part 2)

_Sunday, 19 April, 20:22:09._

The  _Queen Selizabeth_  left Yokohama Harbour seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds ago and the interior is so full of the  _Who's Who_ of the Tokyo business world that it already feels stifling. Officers in uniform are relegated to the edges of the room, while Superintendent Chaki converses in low tones with Suzuki Tomoko by the stage that is waiting for her husband. Inspector Nakamori paces near them in a faint whirl of stale cigar smoke and one of his off-the-rack suits. The scent clashes terribly with the Suzuki matriarch's calla lily perfume, and retreat becomes preferable to eavesdropping on the discussion of security measures.

Edge precludes any embarrassing collisions on the way to Murakami-keiji's post by one of the double-doors, where it can be dropped again. "Anything interesting, Murakami-keiji?"

 _Pulse._  Murakami's parade rest posture is at odds with his wry grin and resigned tone. "You mean besides five hundred guests we're expressly forbidden from searching?"

"Precisely." Said guests continue milling about the mercifully air-conditioned ballroom, an amalgam of sweat and chemical scents and  _hor d'oeuvres_. "At least the room's colours are well coordinated, aren't they?"

"Oh, yeah, they must have gotten a good decora…" Murakami trails off and asks in a perplexed tone, "I thought—were you pulling my leg, back at the station?"

"Not at all; I was merely testing to be sure you're not Kid yourself." Or Kuroba, though no need to mention  _that._  If no one else is aware of the resemblance, to speak it aloud would only tempt fate.

"Heh. And now I know  _you're_  not Kid, either. Not a bad method, when we can't check for masks; too bad we can't use it on everyone else."

"That would be astoundingly convenient, and so impossible."

Murakami hums agreement, then abruptly shifts, shoes scraping carpet until they click together at full attention. The general murmur of conversation fades into an expectant hush; after a few moments a canned, slightly tinny fanfare precedes a surge of applause from all present, and presumably President Suzuki's voice begins a welcome speech.

The speech is not memorable, as such things go; more so is Suzuki Tomoko's challenge, and distribution of fake pearls. A lack of official invitation prevents examining a pearl closely, but at least there's no obligation to wear one, either. The room rustles and murmurs with excitement and a hint of uncertainty, snatches of conversation blurring into a fog of background noise.

_Thumpthumpthumpthump—_

Light footsteps dulled by carpet rush past before there's a chance to bring edge to bear. Such a short stride—who would bring a child to a formal event?

"Who was  _that_?"

"You mean you haven't met Edogawa-kun yet? He's been at the station a few times lately as a crime witness, or because his guardian solved a case—that would be Mouri Kogoro, the private detective. I don't see him here, but his daughter was hanging around with Sonoko-san earlier; they might be friends."

Sonoko was similarly a new high school second year; the daughter must be the same, but that pace… "How old is he? Eight?"

"Try six," Murakami corrected with a chuckle, then continued in a more sober tone, "He's seen at least one body, poor kid. But he was on the hotel roof on April first, too, come to think of it, and only Nakamori-keibu was expecting Kid to turn up there…"

After midnight?  _Alone?_ "Perhaps you could excuse me, then. I'd like to know precisely what had him running off like that…"

"Go on, kid. Enjoy your freedom as a floater."

Murakami likely means the term as an endearment, but it still takes effort to not bristle. Turn and leave before the policeman can catch it; there are more important things to do than take offense at casual ageism. Take to the halls at a casual pace, tracking the quarry without obviously stalking. Footsteps there, a boy's soprano asking for the toilet  _there,_  more footsteps and then a door crashing open with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. Edge catches a blur of movement into the blurrier confines of the toilet; dart to the entrance to prevent any scene-tampering, only to discover the boy using a handkerchief to hold the remains of a latex mask.

The barely-detectable private smirk spreading across the boy's face is rather disturbing, as it's disconcertingly similar to Eric's typical expression when pulling a laser tag ambush. "Is that…?"

The smirk vanishes, boy whirling with an unconvincingly innocent look and chirping, "Isn't it strange? President Suzuki's face and clothes are here in the toilet! Could it have been Kid?"

Pause, taken aback, before managing through slitted eyes, "That's… likely, yes. It would be best to leave the rest alone, and I'll fetch one of the officers."

"Thanks, niisan! I'll make sure no one touches anything."

_Other than you?_

Doubts aside, no one else on board could be so clearly not Kid, making him the best guard of the scene. Not that there should be much to find, unless Kid is so incompetent that his continued freedom will be even more disappointing than his supposed skills. Alerting Murakami creates an avalanche until the bathroom is mobbed by officers, and eavesdropping on Nakamori's interview with the Edogawa boy—Edogawa Conan, apparently, and that isn't a name, that's an internet handle—is as simple as loitering slightly down the hall.

Almost more surprising than the name is how, beneath the precociously innocent tone, Edogawa's report is clear, concise and complete with no more than Nakamori's initial prompt. Not a single tangent to the story of Sonoko missing her sister, discovering that both sister and father were safely pocketed at home, and tracking Suzuki's impostor. And by the time that realization sinks in, Edogawa's footsteps are already fading in the direction of the party.

There's precocious, and then there's downright odd. Maybe if Kid gets caught, Edogawa will provide another riddle worth solving… Kid first, though, especially if Edogawa is in close proximity to Sonoko. And not a criminal, of course. Now, what would a second disguise be? He obviously didn't plan to be the Suzuki head all night, it's far too much in the spotlight for thieving. Perhaps an officer, the  _Adam's Smile_  and clock tower heists show a pattern of preference, or one of the deckhands scattered throughout the ship. Including on and below deck, where officers are absent to maintain a better perimeter of the party itself.

A lack of assigned post is a wonderful thing.

* * *

_21:34:37._

While the sailors are good sports about being suspects, and have the sense to allow a brief check for latex rather than appear suspicious by refusing, the search is fruitless. The prospect would be less frustrating if the ship wasn't sodding  _enormous._  Superintendent Chaki's personnel assignments are the best for the circumstances, as no approved task force size would be sufficient to guard the whole ship. And as Kid will surely have to reveal himself during his theft, they will simply need to keep him from getting away.

Approach the main doors, calculating the best avenues of escape and odds of each for likelihood of use—

_Bang!_

Two gunshots, so close together to almost sound like one. Who would—why—he's a  _thief_ , not a murderer!

The door bursts open at a shove, nearly drowned out by delayed-reaction screams of horror. Breathe; focus.  _Pulse._

Room frozen, half watching Tomoko and half turned to the corner table. Weave closer to properly sense the body on the table as more than a vague blob-with-a-hat. Holes and wet-texture-change in the fabric across the chest, and more liquid matting short hair and trailing out of the mouth... Lungshot. Far too late for any delayed medical attention.

...This wasn't supposed to happen.

Chill seeps through shirtsleeves and vest and suit coat, fingers and torso suddenly aching like they haven't since the last blizzard. How could anyone want Kid dead? But wait, that can't be right… Kid's chest just  _moved._

"What have you done!?" Nakamori's outrage is palpable, but unimportant just now. Hold edge and breath and wait, only half aware of Tomoko telling the inspector not to worry.

"You see, he's not really dead."

Kid blinks, sitting up smoothly with a grin, a bow, a tip of the hat. Not dead. Not  _Kid._  Sanada Kazumi, Tomoko introduces him as she explains the trick, the obvious and simple trick relying on shock effect rather than clever skill. It burns a little to have been duped, however briefly, and Tomoko may never fully return to good favor for having used murder as an  _entertainment stunt_. Sanada gets some grace for being the hired performer, but even then he's at the bottom of any list of magicians for the near future, Kid included.

The applause of too-easily-pleased guests is fading. Unclench fists and retreat to Murakami's position, in no mood for legerdemain entertainment tonight. Kid might use it as part of his cover, and catching that will require not getting caught up in the patter and prestige. Though even if Kid escapes, it will almost be worth it to remove the sour taste tonight's events already created.

"You've got good reaction time, Hakuba-kun." Murakami sounds amused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We cops were looking for the shooter rather than after the victim, and seeing how fast you moved… I was surprised you stopped before you'd checked for a pulse."

"Had the wounds been real, he would have drowned in his own blood by the time I reached the body." Grisly truth is truth nonetheless.

"Quick eye. You'd make a good cop in a few years."

Shrug, face turned towards the crowd. "I'd rather be a consulting detective."

Murakami laughs—kindly meant, but the disbelief is audible. "What, like Sherlock Holmes? You've got the coat down, but the job'd be a whole lot harder, even with your father's position."

"And yet." Private detectives tend to have more domestic cases, and the pattern has held true, even among ones worthy of a headline. The few exceptions have tended to be coincidence or having the right acquaintance involved.

"Well, to be honest, if you want to be taken seriously enough to try for that? Switch to a suit. The coat's great, and makes you stand out, but you'd look more professional."

"I'll… consider it." The coat is wonderful distraction, as well as wonderfully  _warm_ , but if it would be a detriment… perhaps when the snow melts.

Across the room, Sanada invites the audience to examine his decks, the unmodified ones to be replaced later. Everyone is facing the stage, except… how interesting. Edogawa, instantly recognizable by his unique stature, is skimming a book instead. It's too distant to do more than recognize the shape, but the size is large for most children's books, or even a typical novel. Perhaps he's not interested in magic either, but his posture is focused beyond a child reading for pleasure, and the way he rises to look about the room is similar.

"Kid!" The cry of surprise sends new murmurs through the room, nervous energy ratcheting so high it's a wonder a genteel mob hasn't formed. But no, once more not the thief, but a card heralding his coming. Only Sanada and the two teenage girls were near the card deck; perhaps Sanada is Kid in disguise after all…? Even the magician's bewildered stance could be a ruse.

The door beside Murakami opens, letting in the tang of fresh saltwater and a promise of rain. Tsutsui—only one rough-voiced sailor on the boat tonight has an Osakan accent, though he was pleasant earlier—inquires, "Oi, anything happened in here yet? Only we're ten minutes out from the dock and some of us were hopin' for a story to tell off'a this trip."

_What._

Murakami checks his cell phone, answering, "Almost 2300 already? Wow, I must have lost track of time."

Ignore them both and sudden creeping chill, hand plunging into coat pocket to trace the pocket watch's promise of time uninterrupted. Surely there's almost an hour and seven and a half minutes of cruise time remaining, Kid can't have twisted time so subtly it couldn't be _felt_ —

_22:53:12._

Carefully, carefully, don't clench so tight as to snap delicate metal into equally delicate skin, edge dropping automatically rather than risk a flare of pressure. Think. Be logical _._  Kid has… managed to break the laws of physics with terrifying ease. How would he— _why_ would he—

Being closer to shore has merit for escape, certainly, but to assume that in an entire shipful of people, no one would notice the loss of time? Although… even Eric admits to losing time occasionally while still conscious, a consequence of distraction or overfocus. This must be what that feels like. It's  _awful._

The daze of horror dims Nakamori's barked orders and hum of nervous energy from the guests. A young woman's voice, unfamiliar: "I'm sorry, can someone pick that up for me?" Then a hiss and  _crack_  like a Guy Fawkes Night sparkler, one at first and then easily another dozen from multiple directions, heralding shouts that Tomoko's pearls are  _exploding._

Chaki's booming appeals for calm have no effect on the impromptu mob pounding towards the exits. The boy, he could be trampled; duck into the nearest corner and  _pulse_. Adult, adult, Suzuki Sonoko, Suzuki Tomoko knocked to the ground—Edogawa, there with the other teenage girl supporting Tomoko and pocketing a handkerchief, it must be the Mouri girl—

Why is she pocketing a handkerchief?

Between heartbeats, before there's time to check again, Tomoko shrieks.

"It's Kid! Kid stole the Black Star!

_Bugger._

The crowd doesn't seem to notice, shouts and warmth and pressure from at least thirty passengers all pushing for the same exits overwhelming Murakami and the other officers. A stumbling step is the only warning before someone (perfume, high-pitched 'eep', and slender arms suggest a woman) makes the corner even more cramped. She doesn't even apologize as she regains her balance and then vanishes back into the flow of bodies.

The handkerchief. Why have a handkerchief out when you've just caught someone from falling? Unless it was already out.

...Body oils are bad for pearls. And Tomoko's brooch setting was empty, as was the Mouri girl's, while other guests had removed the pins entirely.

 _Pulse_ ,gently, don't let anger or concern make it something people would notice.

So many bodies, it's difficult to have any sense of the far room with so much in the way. Work along the edge of the room carefully, not snarling when people going the opposite way hit your ribs or knock you into a wall, until the sense of space returns. Try again.

The girl— _Kid_ —is gone, and Edogawa too.

Nothing to track; all the perfumes have mixed into a headache-worthy amalgam. The nearest exit is finally clear, with only a smattering of people on this side of the room. However, the outside deck is no more revealing. If Kid took Edogawa as a hostage… but all the case files contradict that as being Kid's style, unless something changed drastically in the months there hasn't been time to catch up on yet. Kid prefers a quick escape, why not simply go? Surely Edogawa wasn't trying to chase Kid on his own, assuming he even had known Mouri  _was_ Kid.

The thud of racing footsteps and a smirk far too old for a child rises in memory. 'Surely' doesn't seem so certain any longer.

In the background, officers check the 'escaped' guests and organize to search the decks systematically, almost drowned out by the helicopters swooping in from the mainland. Tsutsui had been right; six minutes and forty-eight seconds have passed since realizing the time was wr—different from expected.

Pacing the deck is frustratingly useless, but the  _Queen Selizabeth_  is four stories below deck and five stories above, and Officer Harada had been just audible enough in the noise to hear him tell his partner that at least they weren't having to look after a civilian detective brat while searching for Kid. Harada's company is one to avoid in the future, at least until it's possible to prove what use a civilian attaché can be.

A gently-held  _pulse_  reveals enough surrounding deck before it fades into empty space to avoid anyone else's path. At least, it does until Murakami deliberately makes an interception, smile apologetic. "I need to check your face, Hakuba-kun, standard procedure." All the more important for that Kid's successfully disguised as you before, he graciously doesn't add.

Don't sigh. "As you must, Murakami-keiji." Hooding eyes is at least a natural reaction to a hand reaching forward, and Murakami favors the cheek over the nose where the skin is more sensitive. A pinch— _ow—_ and it's over.

"Okay, you're clear." Murakami's own cheek sports a fresh indentation, so no need to return the favour.

"Thank you. Any sign so far?"

Murakami does sigh. "I swear, he has the devil's own luck. Two minutes till we dock, and nothing."

"Aaah! Wait a second!" Edogawa's shout carries from the stern. Run automatically, halfway down the deck before the words resolve into anything meaningful.

Pulse, directed away from Murakami keeping pace behind. Edogawa has a bundle of clothes in hand, facing three officers who are supporting what must be the young woman Kid spent half the evening disguised as. (Less than half, if you count the time-slip. It would rankle less to pretend it didn't happen, but what if Kid manages to do it again? Was it accidental, or calculated? ...Stop. Focus.)

Mouri is lax. Asleep? The Clock Tower file had included reports of officers being hit with suspiciously familiar-sounding anaesthetic gas—is Kid clever enough to have obtained a sample when he stole the breather mask, and reverse-engineered it within a month? Pride says it's impossible, but… Kid seems to push at the limits of that concept with every bloody heist. Kid also must be at least partially androgynous in appearance, no taller than approximately 168 centimeters, and can wear at least low heels comfortably. The level of realism is a bit disconcerting; reading in a case file that Kid has disguised as Aoko-kun at least once is one thing, but experiencing a flawless cross-gender presentation that held up not only to strangers, but close friends, is rather another.

As Mouri wakes with a yawn, Edogawa's expression is curiously non-plussed. However, that and the note on her dress can wait to be examined at the station, as Kid is the priority and clearly not present.

"Hoi!" Another officer, from… the roof above the party's room. "There's a glider up here! Musta been left earlier, but there's no sign of Kid!"

More officers converge, covering any approach angle to the glider. The glider again; a decent exit strategy in the right circumstances, no wonder Kid favors it. But for it have not been used, and Kid nowhere to be found… stand at the railing, breathing the salt in the chill evening wind. Taking guest's face to disembark land is untenable with the officers on high alert, and evidence of the glider leaves only one remaining route for escape. But it's  _April_ , and five minutes to dock on a cruise ship is a much longer swim through the harbour. Presuming Kid found an access point low enough to not only reach the water without breaking his neck but also to avoid getting sucked into the engines and their wake, there remains the not-inconsequential matter of night-time ocean temperatures carrying the risk of _hypothermia._  If Kid is as clever as he is lucky, he stashed a wetsuit as well as a glider and the harbor currents will sweep him toward a dock rather than toward the sea, but even then that leaves twice now that Kid has unquestionably shown a preference to risk death rather than capture.

Prison can hardly be pleasant, particularly for a thrill-seeker, but… surely prison is a better alternative than being dead?


	13. Parchment

Text Message Log [ _Sender text-to-speech/speech-to-text enabled]_  
Sending ID: Saguru  
Recipient ID: Eric  
  
19 Apr 23:51 Me: Kid is crazy. More later.  
19 Apr 23:54 Eric: For you to say that, he must be crazier than a bag of cats. Go to bed, little brother.  
20 Apr 07:36 Me: I did. Nice marvel movies reference. Still up?  
20 Apr 19:23 Eric: I had a date. Enjoy your afternoon of paperwork?  
20 Apr 19:28 Me: Don’t get me started. I think Superintendent Chaki may have invented an extra form just for me.  
20 Apr 19:31 Eric: Poor Guru. So, crazy?  
20 Apr 19:37 Me: I suspect he swam through half a kilometer of Tokyo Bay.  
20 Apr 19:39 Eric: In APRIL? At NIGHT?  
20 Apr 19:44 Me: Precisely. Also my speech software updated and I’m experimenting with using a slash rather than caps for emphasis. Try it?  
20 Apr 19:45 Eric: All right. How’s /this/?  
20 Apr 19:48 Me: Different but faster. Lets keep it for now.  
20 Apr 19:49 Eric: Sure. So did Kid get away with the pearl?  
20 Apr 19:51 Me: No. A grade-schooler somehow tripped him up enough that he gave up the pearl to escape.  
20 Apr 19:52 Eric: You’re joking. I want the /whole/ story; I’m calling.

* * *

Date: 20 April 20:21:57, GMT+9  
From: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org  
To: shrinkguy@gmail.com

Dear Cade,

I hope this note finds you well. My profile on Kaitou Kid has recently had some interesting new additions. Would you be interested in discussing him? I can point you toward news footage if you prefer to start an analysis from scratch, or simply send my current impressions. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,

Saguru Hakuba

* * *

Date: 21 April 11:02:11, GMT+9  
From: shrinkguy@gmail.com  
To: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org

Hey, Junior!

Good to hear from you. Vegas is a breeding ground for the bizarre, but I’m a glutton for punishment and stick around. How about we start with what you’ve got, and I’ll go from there? You’ve got home court advantage, after all.

Cade

* * *

Date: 21 April 18:14:29, GMT+9  
From: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org  
To: shrinkguy@gmail.com

Dear Cade,

I confess I don’t understand why I am “Junior”. Perhaps you could clarify for me?

As for Kid, the more I know, the stranger he appears to be. I’ve arranged the following points in as logical an order as I can manage.

Initial Appearance: Paris, France, approximately 18 years and 11 months ago. Vanished from the public eye approximately 8 years and 10 months ago. Returned to activity 9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days ago.

General profile: Asian androgynous-looking likely-male, based on gender presentation when out of disguise. Age between approximately 20 and 40. Funds, transportation and advanced chemistry knowledge suggest a return of the original Kid, or at least an older culprit; physical appearance—what’s visible under that bloody hat and monocle—and speech patterns and slang point toward a younger individual. Current physical capabilities are inconclusive, as careful and consistent conditioning could achieve observed agility in an individual at the higher end of the suspected age range. Nakamori-keibu and Chaki-keibu are the sole veterans of the original task force in the Tokyo MPD. Nakamori-keibu has been quite vocal in his certainty that Kid is the returned original, while Chaki-keibu has voiced no opinion.

On the subject of advanced chemistry knowledge: I borrowed a newly-developed aerosol anaesthetic from my grandfather’s research lab to use at a heist on 5 March. Kid acquired the delivery mechanism during the course of the heist and managed to analyze the remnants well enough to replicate it at another heist within 3 weeks. This doubles as one piece of a host of evidence for Kid also having genius intelligence to go with a broad and deep range of knowledge.

Other abilities include a preternaturally broad vocal range with perfect control. Among others, he has impersonated multiple officers perfectly over the police radios, as well as myself and the head of a large business group in a physical disguise. He exhibits exceptional disguise capabilities, most recently a teenage female so perfectly that her close family and friends did not realize when it occurred. This suggests a younger individual, as body types tend to change irrevocably with the passage of time. He demonstrates quick reactions and improvisation when a situation changes or new elements are introduced, and skill with mechanical engineering. He regularly utilizes a multitude of gadgets, including a gun that alternately shoots razor-edge playing cards or a suction-anchor attachment, a collapsible hang glider, flash bombs, and smoke bombs. Much of his equipment appears to be custom-made  (see: genius intelligence) and as such would be more difficult to replace but also near-impossible to trace. He also presents with an eidetic memory, evidenced by him flawlessly reciting a 14-digit identification number for a disguise assumed no more than twenty minutes earlier.

Weaknesses include arrogance, or at least the appearance thereof, in his confidence at obtaining his quarry and escaping unhindered despite announcing the time and place of his thefts before they occur. Initially his methods to achieve this were simplistic, but have more recently grown to match higher levels of security. He has a tendency toward high-risk decisions, particularly if confronted with possible capture. Heavy reliance on his aforementioned gadgets has led to requiring high-risk decisions on multiple occasions.  Also, despite high athleticism and agility, Kaitou Kid cannot ice skate in the slightest.

Modus Operandi: When not in disguise, he wears a white suit, cape, hat, and monocle. An advance notice is sent to either his target or to the police with as long as weeks to no more than hours of lead time. Targets themselves have varied—random focus eventually switched to solely focusing on gems, but has reverted to whatever seems to catch Kid’s fancy. Others have used notices to try to shift the blame onto Kid, but he has cleared his name of those incidents each time they occur by ensuring whatever was taken is returned. His overall theme has pulled from stage magicians to varying degrees through his active history, including the use of stage lights, doves, confetti and sleight-of-hand. If he’s not a performer of some sort in civilian life, he’s at least had some degree of training along those lines.

I confess I can’t glean any motive other than an apparent thrill-seeker looking for a challenge that real life may have previously but no longer supplies, whether or not he is the original Kid returned or a legacy tribute. If you have any thoughts toward that end, I would appreciate hearing them.

Best regards,

Saguru Hakuba

* * *

Date: 22 April 10:52:17, GMT+9  
From: shrinkguy@gmail.com  
To: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org

It’s short for “Sherlock Holmes Junior”.

What specific high risk decisions have you encountered? I’m still working on possible motives myself.

Cade

* * *

Date: 22 April 18:11:45 GMT+9  
From: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org  
To: shrinkguy@gmail.com

I see. Thank you for the comparison. I’m certain I could offer more from archived heist data, but three examples simply from February onwards:

1\. Diving into severe high winds with his hang-glider, which led to crashing into nearby landscaping and a foot-chase until a decoy allowed him to escape.  
2\. Jumping off a clock tower without activating his glider or a proper parachute.  
3\. Swimming through part of Tokyo Bay hours after sunset when nighttime temperatures could easily induce hypothermia.

Best regards,

Saguru Hakuba 

* * *

Date: 23 April 10:59:13, GMT+9  
From: shrinkguy@gmail.com  
To: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org

I see what you mean. Look, since you haven’t mentioned it yet, I’ll warn you now—if you’ve cornered him before, don’t do it again. Not if you want more than a body to prosecute. Run him down or surprise him, but if he’s pulling stunts like that, he’ll take deadly risks to get away until he stops being lucky. He seems to be nursing a non-violent streak, but the desperation there worries me. Whatever he’s doing seems important enough to risk dying for, and that can also mean, in a worst-case scenario, it’s important enough to kill for. And someone pushing the spotlight so hard is usually running from something in the shadows—a physical threat, or some pretty hefty mental or emotional scars.

Be careful, Junior. I’m still catching up on this guy, but usually the biggest physical risk takers—adrenaline junkie or not—are the ones with the psychological scars looking for a danger they can control. You say he’s a showman, so watch his smile. If it ever slips? Duck and cover, and then deal with the fallout after.

Cade

* * *

Date: 23 April 18:06:56 GMT+9  
From: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org  
To: shrinkguy@gmail.com

I hadn’t considered that. Thank you for the warning, and I’ll keep it in mind, though now you make me concerned about what fallout there could be. I’ll try to keep you updated if I learn anything new, and if you have any further thoughts, please contact me again.

Best regards,

Saguru Hakuba

* * *

Date: 30 April 13:12:52 GMT+9  
From: SHakuba221@hakubalabs.org  
To: shrinkguy@gmail.com

Dear Cade,

Kid pulled three heists in the past seven days, with an average of 23 hours and 43 minutes of advance notice for all three. He appears to delight in watching the police force scramble to keep up with him. Targets were a jade statue of Buddha, a tapestry of Byakko, and a set of three gemstone geodes. His successful disguises now include the son of the statue’s owner, another police officer, and a museum janitor. There appears to be no connection between the three targets, whether social, political, monetary, location, or even the security systems. As for cornering Kid being a potential risk? No one got close enough to try, including myself. You’d think he’d require more time to plan for thefts where he’s _expected_ in order to be so successful, but… I strongly suspect he uses some of the chaos of the limited time to his advantage as well.

Best regards,

Saguru Hakuba

* * *

Text Message Log [ _Sender text-to-speech/speech-to-text enabled]_  
Sending ID: Saguru  
Recipient ID: Eric  
  
1 May 19:21 Eric: You haven’t mentioned any cases lately. Anything new on that front?  
1 May 19:45 Me: Remember when we talked about how rigorous the education system is? Even though they switched to a 5-day school week this year I’m /still/ working the fraud concern for grandfather’s friend that I took 3 weeks ago. He even gave me the data on an encrypted drive so I can use my own laptop and I’ve skipped half a dozen days of club but if I skip classes or homework then Japanese History and Modern Lit will kill me. I’d be even worse off if I couldn’t do the Calculus and Chemistry homework during lecture itself. And did I mention Kid is a bastard who held 4 heists in 13 days and has another scheduled for Saturday?  
1 May 20:04 Eric: Lol. Yes you did. But hey, you’ll get to put one of the top school systems in the world on your Uni applications and Kid counts as an active case, right? So you’re multi-tasking all the time.  
1 May 20:09 Me: If I don’t just come back to take my A-levels. That might be less frustrating in the long run. I heard all the horror stories about entrance exams here already.  
1 May 20:10 Eric: Whatever you end up wanting, go for it. I’m behind you all the way.  
1 May 20:11 Me: Sap. :)  
1 May 20:12 Eric: I’ll deny it to my dying breath. :D  
1 May 20:14 Me: I know. You’re still a sap. I’ll call you Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grammatical errors in the text messages are intentional. Text-to-speech isn’t perfect, and Saguru doesn’t feel the need to aim for perfection with Eric. Similarly, the use of numerals when low numbers would typically be spelled out is also intentional. Part of Cade’s dialogue is pulled with permission from Ellen Brand’s _An Unprofessional Opinion_ , because the same two characters having essentially the same conversation is bound to be similar.
> 
> Comments are treasured beyond reason. <3


End file.
